
The Crows Of The Bayou

"I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect—in terror." —Edgar Allan Poe
The Bayou is no ordinary swamp—it is a place both wistful and strange, where Southerners often recall their childhood memories with a certain fondness. But the story I am about to tell is not one I remember fondly. It is the single memory that still haunts me with wicked horror: the day my father died.
The memory of that dreadful event has pursued me relentlessly. What I now disclose—reluctantly and with trembling hand—is a tale of the mystery that still binds me to the damp and spectral Bayou. More than twenty years have passed since I last visited the old mansion I once adored as a boy.
Ever since Father was killed under strange and frightening circumstances, my recollections have been tainted with the horror of that day. I am Tobias Garceau, and it is difficult to put into words the terror I felt returning to the colonial mansion. But return I did, in the year 1920.
Mother, who had been confined in the psychiatric ward of the Trudeau Home for her hallucinations, was finally released after many years. Now in her late seventies, she was frail and battling advanced dementia. I was her only child, and a reclusive one at that.
I never married, never had children. I lived a life of solitude as an eccentric man, a devoted bibliophile, and a writer of dark tales. Financially secure, I wanted for little, and Mother—when in good spirits—was generous with gifts. Yet she could also be harsh and cold, especially when disciplining me in my youth. She often punished my mischief and preached sternly of the Lord’s judgment, warning of hell’s punishment for sinners.
Sweet Jesus, as she often said, was our salvation—but even He had not saved my father from her growing madness. Or so I was led to believe.
It was on a Monday, the beginning of a gray and brooding week, when I returned to my childhood home by the Bayou. Mother arrived later that day, brought by a driver from the hospital. The old Antebellum mansion had belonged to the Garceau family since 1820.
The mansion had weathered the tribulations of the Confederacy and the Civil War. Though much of the old plantation was now overgrown, you could still glimpse traces of it from afar. The towering cypress and hickory trees stood like ancient sentinels around the garden, their leaves—amber and rust in the autumn chill—stirred gently by the eerie breeze.
Our steward, Mr. Thompson, had overseen the property in our absence, keeping it standing though it had fallen into some disrepair. The years had left their mark, but I had already begun restoring the mansion once I learned of Mother’s release. Despite the dark memories, it was still our home—and most importantly, it was her home.
Mother’s psychiatrist assured me that she had long since forgotten the grim events of Father’s death. Though I had my doubts, I chose to believe it, at least enough to bring her back to the place of her birth. I hoped the familiar surroundings would ease her mind rather than awaken old ghosts.
There was little I could do but hope. The Garceau estate was part of us—woven into the essential fabric of our family history. What city folk might call tedious and suffocating, we Acadians embraced with pride and imagination.
Our Acadian heritage, passed down from our French ancestors, was something Mother held dear. She insisted we were true Acadians, though others might casually call us Cajuns. To describe the estate’s beauty is to risk falling into cliché, but truly, its grandeur deserved nothing less than poetic praise: sprawling gardens of moss-draped oaks, vines tangled with azaleas, camellias, irises, and magnolias; old sugarcane fields now blanketed by wild lilies and swaying willows.
By day, the Bayou hummed and buzzed with life, and by night, it came alive with the glow of fireflies beneath the velvet sky. The mansion, with its towering white columns and narrow, shadowed corridors, was a temple of memory—a monument to both glory and grief.
Mother seemed, at first, content to be back. She spent hours wandering the gardens, her face calm and peaceful, as though the ghosts of her past had finally quieted. I was grateful for every moment of her peace.
But of course, nothing that peaceful could last.
This winsome appearance had once pleased Mother, who was always fond of the revelry and gaiety of the festive balls in her youth, when Grandfather Elijah Garceau had been alive and was the supreme master of the plantation. For a week, Mother was demure in her mien and spent her leisure time walking the estate, amid the lovely gardens and cypress trees. Naturally, I was extremely grateful to see her so joyous and at ease within her familiar surroundings. In those unforgettable days of the past, it was common to have a bidden visitor. I knew that the Garceau Estate was the only place I could bring Mother. My great hope was that she would not remember too much of that terrible day when Father was found dead—a profound concern of mine, for which I had made careful preparations.
The steward, Mr. Thompson, had fallen ill, and I was forced to hire another caretaker. The man I found had been referred by Mr. Thompson himself. His name was Mr. Guillory, originally from Baton Rouge. His credentials were outstanding, and I trusted the good word of Mr. Thompson.
The Plaçage was the reason for the diverse mixture of races seen throughout Louisiana. It was an extralegal system in which European descendants entered into common-law marriages with Negroes and Mestizos. The Spaniards had once invited the exiled Acadians to settle in Louisiana, and I mention this solely because our noble lineage was a product of that antiquated system.
I do not acknowledge this out of any shame—my admission is a token gesture of veracity, though it has since estranged me from my northern kindred. If there was one thing that truly personified Louisiana, it was Mardi Gras. Yet I had always enjoyed more the Cajun fais do-do, with their fiddles and banjos. Often, as a child, I feasted on duck, rabbit, okra, mirlitons, gumbo, court bouillon, cracklins, and boudin—all staples of Cajun cuisine. There is no other place like the unique mélange of Louisiana culture.
A month passed, and Mother was improving well. She had her days of quiet and reserve, but that was expected, as the psychiatrist had explained. The maid, Mrs. Guillory—a kind and hardworking Negro woman—kept Mother occupied during the day. She was also Mr. Guillory’s wife.
The woven streams of the bayou interspersed with the flowing rivers, threading through the cloven branches of the hardwood trees with their smooth bark and edible nuts, beyond the cleft before dusk. The colorful foliage and the yew along the edge of the estate sheltered the long, warm days of summer. Winter was equally idyllic, as the shades of green became tinctured with a mild, whitish hue.
One day, I found Mother sitting silently on the porch, her gaze aloof, as though something—or someone—occupied her attention. When I asked what troubled her, she was vague and reserved. This concerned me, as it was the first time I had noticed such subdued quietude in her. The viridescence of the leaves no longer entertained her, and she seemed to drift into a world of her own imagination.
I looked ahead and saw nothing unusual, but for some reason, she seemed mesmerized by an unseen captivation of the bayou. I spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Guillory about it; neither had a reasonable explanation. I decided, reluctantly, to accept the occurrence as nothing of grievous consequence.
The next morning, Mother returned to her usual self, but I was left wondering whether these mood changes were caused by some sudden alteration in her environment—or whether I was overreacting. I recalled the psychiatrist’s words: it was normal for Mother to have certain mood shifts, as long as they weren’t constant and were part of her overall progression.
The picturesque garden soon brought serenity back to her restless eyes. Music always lifted her spirits and eased her pensiveness. She was fond of a priceless phonograph that Father had given her for her birthday. I often played the piano for her in the evenings, as we gathered in the hall. Mrs. Guillory would sometimes entertain us with stirring renditions of old Gospel hymns. Mother, a devout Catholic, often invoked Sweet Jesus and the Virgin Mary in her soft, mellifluous Southern drawl.
Our days at the mansion were mostly spent among ourselves. When I had time, I continued working on my novels. Autumn turned to winter, and spring to summer. As the seasons passed, so did the year, and Mother remained much the same—no worse than when she had arrived.
The following month, I had to travel to New Orleans to meet with my publisher about my unfinished novel. New Orleans, with its diverse citizens, was a broad reflection of the city’s rich, ancestral tapestry.
My visit was brief, only a day, and Mr. Bushnell, my publisher, invited me to a party that evening. I saw no harm in attending and felt no need to object. I trusted that Mrs. Guillory would care well for Mother. Many elites of Louisiana’s publishing world would be present.
The chance to reunite with old colleagues and meet new ones was exciting. If I hoped to extend my audience, I had to be there. Fame and recognition are sometimes as fleeting as the wind. That evening, I spent my time at the party sharing stimulating discussions with prominent poets and novelists.
As I left the festivities and returned to my hotel, I had a strong presentiment that something bad had transpired at the mansion. I set aside the nervous feeling, focusing instead on the stimulating exchanges of the night.
But when I awoke the next morning and returned to the estate, I learned that Mother had suffered an epileptic attack. She had not had one since her return, and I was deeply concerned. Mrs. Guillory explained the dreadful incident: Mother had been sitting on the porch when she began babbling about seeing my father in front of the swamp. Had it been a spectral vision of his ghost? There had to be a logical explanation, but the only tangible fact was that she had mistaken his image for something else. The swirling waters of the bayou were vast and deceptive.
Mrs. Guillory said all Mother uttered was, “Sweet Jesus, it’s my darling Isaiah.”
The image she claimed to have seen was troubling, but I was more disturbed by the hysteria that had overtaken her. That night, I instructed Mrs. Guillory to keep close watch over Mother. I dreaded another epileptic attack that could leave her permanently incapacitated.
I refrained from traveling after that, guilty for not being there when the episode occurred. I kept strict vigilance, ensuring that Mrs. Guillory was always near for supervision. Mother’s comportment began to unsettle me. The strange visions and recurring mentions of Father became frequent and vivid. They seemed to inhabit not just her imagination, but her entire being. It was her mental state that troubled me most.
This sudden change was not of my choosing, but it was thrust upon me by circumstances beyond my control. I had no choice but to take command of the unfolding situation, as it became evident that Mother was losing her coherent volition.
Later, I joined Mother and the servants on the porch. When night fell, the most horrifying experience yet at the mansion transpired. I was resting in my room when I was jolted awake by a terrible scream that echoed throughout the house. Mr. Guillory knocked urgently at my door, calling out to me. Rising quickly, I opened the door to discover what had compelled him to disturb me so late at night.
He informed me immediately that Mother was having another convulsion. I rushed to her room to find her collapsed on the floor in the throes of an epileptic seizure. I was aghast. Mrs. Guillory was holding her arms as Mother writhed uncontrollably. I rushed to assist, and eventually, Mother stabilized, just as she had after previous episodes. She was given medication at once to stop the convulsion.
Early the next morning, I contacted her doctor and psychiatrist, explaining the events of the night. Both concurred it was imperative I monitor her daily condition closely. Though I was not fully prepared for the abrupt turn of events, I knew I could not abandon Mother in her hour of need, nor leave her to languish in solitary gloom.
When I asked Mrs. Guillory what had triggered Mother’s distress before the seizure, she made a disturbing disclosure: Mother had seen Father’s phantom again. How was I to respond to such an unsettling claim? I had to maintain rationality. Mother had entrusted her apanage to me since my youth, and now it was clear that closer supervision was urgently required.
In the days that followed, her condition deteriorated into frantic hysteria. What had once been a dormant spirit within her transformed into unhinged distress and paranoia. The notion of returning her to the asylum crossed my mind, but I could not bear to subject her to that misery again. It would have been too devastating for both her and me. This daunting burden began to narrow my options. Mother was no longer the same, and her increasingly unstable state weighed heavily on her.
She would say boldly, “Toby, don’t you see your father there? Boy, he’s alive, and he’s come from yonder blue.”
Mother, ever so affectionate of my name, always called me Toby instead of Tobias. She was gradually drifting into a perilous realm of delusion, and it was becoming irreversible. This required more than mere patience; it demanded my absolute attention and careful care.
In the days that followed, I noticed she had developed a heightened, almost exaggerated awareness. Despite moments of serene composure, she became consumed by her obsession with Father’s image. This conflicting pattern of behavior required vigilant observation.
I soon hired a nurse to administer her medication and keep her company, ensuring a professional was always present when seizures struck. I could not afford to be negligent. I attempted to distract her from thoughts of Father, but she stubbornly mentioned him whenever she claimed to see him.
Mrs. Guillory experienced similar unsettling episodes, and I did my best to redirect Mother’s attention, taking her to the parlor where I played piano or set the phonograph in motion. For reasons I couldn’t fully explain, she was particularly drawn to the harmonious sounds of the phonograph, which I saw as a hopeful sign. Yet, she soon began to whisper that she heard Father’s voice speaking to her through it, sending chills down my spine.
“Toby, can’t you hear him, boy? Your father’s talking! He speaks to me through that darn phonograph. He’s here, and he’s coming for me, boy—I tell you, he’s coming for me!”
These aberrant manifestations of hysteria grew more distressing and uncontrollable. I feared she was crossing a point of no return. Mother had fully regressed, and all I could do was remain by her side as the madness threatened to consume her. Sedatives were administered along with her regular medication to quell her hysteria.
At times, restraining her became necessary, though it was the cruelest form of discipline I could imagine. Yet it was the sobering truth I had to face as her only son. Occasionally, a fleeting smile would grace her face, especially when the morning sun gleamed through the silk curtains of her upstairs room. I believed it reminded her of her childhood days, once full of excitement and adventure.
She had been captivating—a radiant young woman, as evidenced by the portraits painted of her. Though those moments of light were refreshing, they were rare and unpredictable. I can’t recall the exact hour I first noticed the crows gathering on the rooftop and in the hickory trees. Their raucous caws unsettled Mother terribly, filling her with a haunting dread. She loathed their persistent cries and swore they were omens of evil.
She would say, “For God’s sake, Toby, the crows are signaling my passage to the other world, boy.”
I was preoccupied with her growing terror and overreactions. I couldn’t understand why she was so petrified of the crows, though I surmised they might have triggered a traumatic memory tied to Father’s death. I couldn’t be certain, but it seemed plausible. Whatever the cause, I knew I had to unravel the mystery unfolding before me.
One night, while asleep in my room, I was awakened by strange voices. The sounds drifted up from the parlor downstairs. I crept down the staircase until I reached the parlor’s edge, and there, for the first time, I heard my deceased father’s voice coming through the old phonograph. The voice was incoherent, the tone fragmenting eerily.
“Isaiah, go away—for the boy does not know!”
Stupefied, I entered the parlor and found Mother sitting there alone in the dark. I calmed her and led her upstairs to rest. Later, I told Mrs. Guillory and her husband what had transpired and asked whether they had witnessed anything similar. Strangely, they had not, and even more troubling, they did not seem overly concerned. They, too, seemed to be succumbing to the mansion’s creeping madness.
I couldn’t easily reprimand them, understanding they could not watch over Mother every hour of the day, and the nurse was only present part-time.
I slept little that night, my mind weighed down by what haunted Mother’s soul. Deep down, I sensed there was something far more substantial I needed to uncover—something beyond her bizarre tales and mental disorder. For a fleeting moment, I even considered the possibility that a true supernatural phenomenon was at play, something exceedingly diabolical. Though I had always been inclined to write about terror, I never imagined I would be so intimately acquainted with its chilling reality. The mansion was enveloped in it.
The crows gathered in ever-greater numbers around the house as the days wore on, and Father’s ghost resurfaced once more. It all culminated one night in a series of events that would confirm, beyond doubt, the truth of the account I now share openly.
The crows had suddenly gathered in great numbers, and their caws rose in a deafening chorus. I could see them plainly from my upstairs room, clustered ominously. Their dark plumage and piercing eyes overshadowed their gibbous tails, and their occiputs and crowns were flecked with a shimmering blend of violet-blue and black.
Their napes were a dull black, while the flecking on their heads appeared almost translucent. Their upper backs and scapulars were ample and glossy, their feathers tinged with violet, reflecting a regal sheen that seemed to confirm the primacy of the crows. A reddish-violet gloss adorned their primary coverts, catching the bright sunlight with unsettling brilliance.
As I stood gazing, a cold shiver coursed through me—a visceral certainty that something evil was about to unfold. I sensed it, instinctively, with a chilling recognition that stirred my deepest apprehension. Some force within urged me to move, and without fully understanding why, I descended the staircase just as the crows began to swarm around the house.
I ran to my mother’s room, only to find her bed empty. Then came the peculiar sound of the phonograph playing from the parlor.
Heart pounding, I rushed downstairs to the parlor. But there was no sign of Mother. Instead, I heard the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Guillory speaking in Creole, their tones low and conspiratorial. My mother’s voice was nowhere among them.
When I saw the Guillorys, I demanded to know where Mother was. They smiled—an unsettling, knowing smile that chilled me deeper than any words could. I shouted again, my fear mounting.
At last, they spoke in Creole:
“Li pa la, mai li va jamé bandonné twa Tobias. Ton per, li vivant. Li pa mort!”
(“She is gone, but she has never abandoned you, Tobias. Your father is alive. He is not dead.”)
Then Mrs. Guillory said in English, “The Day of Reckoning has arrived, child.”
Suddenly, the crows shattered the windows and began pouring into the house. As the birds stormed in, Mr. and Mrs. Guillory began to fade, dissolving into the creeping mist of night.
And then, behind me, I saw it: the cadaverous figure of a young boy, drenched in the moss and mire of the Bayou. His eyes were deep obsidian, brimming with a dread that froze my blood. He stepped toward me, then let out an unearthly screech. At once, I was engulfed by the Stygian swarm of crows, their black wings beating around me like the embodiment of nightmare.
I fled the house, bursting onto the porch, where my gaze was drawn to a figure among the sedges and cattails by the Bayou’s bank. The figure stood still as a scarecrow—no other than my father, his decomposed body bound in the sprawl of grasping branches.
I ran toward the Bayou; my eyes fixed on the horrifying sight. The crows circled above, crying their dire song as I stared at the grotesque image of my father’s remains. Then, in the dark water, something floated—Mother’s silk turquoise dress, her favorite. It bobbed on the current like a morbid flag, and I knew, without question, it was her death dress.
And there was more.
As I grabbed the floating garment, another body rose to the surface—the same young boy I had seen inside the house. His corpse floated face-down, grotesquely still. I used a heavy branch to pull him toward me, and when I turned him over, the full horror was revealed through the shifting fog: a hideous, decayed cadaver, its empty eye sockets crawling with maggots. It was the most gruesome sight I had ever beheld.
Later, I would learn that the boy had been the son of Mr. and Mrs. Garceau. I had never known that my parents had adopted me. My mother had murdered both my father and the boy, leaving the boy’s body to rot in the swamp. Years later, she exhumed his remains and dumped them into the Bayou to erase the last trace of her crime. I had been living a lie my entire life, oblivious to the terrible secret my parents had concealed since my birth. I had always wondered why I resembled neither of them in mien or appearance.
And the Guillorys? I discovered they were nothing more than the ghostly remnants of servants who had faithfully served my mother’s family when she was a child—some fifty years ago. I found their photograph, taken in 1880, hidden among Mother’s old trinkets and keepsakes.
Mother never returned that night. Her lifeless body was found later, floating in the fetid waters of the Bayou. Only then did I understand the true purpose of the crows: they had come as harbingers of her death. I can only surmise that the spirits of Mr. and Mrs. Guillory led her to the Bayou, so that the crows could guide her into the darkness.
In the end, it was a ghastly sequence of madness, and I had been an unwilling participant in its final act. Though I considered selling the old Antebellum mansion that had belonged to the Garceau family for generations, I chose instead to remain as the last caretaker of its legacy—even though I was not the true son of Isaiah and Mary Beth Garceau.
A week after the first terrifying events, my curiosity and unease became unbearable. The mansion’s oppressive silence gnawed at me, daring me to dig deeper into its secrets. On a gray, rain-soaked afternoon, I wandered into the dusty library—a room I had avoided since my childhood because of its heavy gloom and the peculiar chill that always seemed to linger there.
As I trailed my fingers along the shelves, something odd caught my eye: a set of books that seemed strangely new, their spines uncracked and unaged compared to the rest of the collection. I tugged at one volume, and to my astonishment, the entire shelf creaked and swung open on hidden hinges, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward into darkness.
The air that rushed out was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay.
Against my better judgment, I descended, my lantern casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. The steps were slick, and each groan of the ancient wood beneath my feet echoed like a death knell. At the bottom, I found a door—iron-banded and etched with strange symbols I did not recognize. I hesitated, but then pushed it open.
Inside was a secret chamber.
The room was cramped and suffocating. On one side, a crude altar stood, its surface-stained dark, as if it had witnessed countless grim rituals. Rusted chains hung from the walls, and beneath the altar lay a pile of bones—small, delicate bones unmistakably belonging to children. My stomach turned, bile rising in my throat.
On the far wall was a painting, its frame warped by time. The portrait was of a woman—my mother, younger and more beautiful than I had ever seen her. But her eyes in the painting were wild, almost feral, and her smile was a grotesque parody of warmth. In her hands, she clutched what looked like a newborn swaddled in cloth… but as I peered closer, I saw that the bundle wasn’t a baby—it was a withered, blackened effigy, pinned with jagged nails.
Suddenly, the temperature in the room plummeted. I felt something brush against my neck—a whisper, cold and malevolent, breathing into my ear: “You were never meant to live.”
Panicking, I stumbled backward, knocking over a shelf. Books and scrolls rained down, and from within the mess spilled a leather-bound diary—my mother’s handwriting scrawled across its cover.
With shaking hands, I opened it. The entries were filled with chilling confessions: how she had made a pact with dark forces to bear a child after years of barrenness, how that pact demanded sacrifice in return, and how the boy—the Garceaus’ true son—had to fulfill the terrible covenant that ultimately doomed him. I was her "reward," a child born of magic and murder.
Tears blurred my vision as I read the final entry:
“They watch me still, the crows. Their black eyes pierce my soul. I know now there is no escape. The boy’s spirit will claim what is his, and the Bayou will take the rest.”
I left the chamber, bolting the hidden door behind me. But the knowledge I had unearthed was a curse I could not bury.
That night, as thunder cracked across the sky, I woke to the cawing sound of the crows again—this time inside my room. They perched on the bedposts, on the dresser, lining the windowsill, their eyes gleaming in the darkness. And standing among them, silent and accusing, was the boy, his drowned face pale and slack with the weight of eternity.
As the days passed, I began to feel the weight of my inheritance more deeply. The mansion, which once stood as a mere structure of wood and stone, now seemed alive with an energy I could not escape. The corridors grew longer, the shadows darker, and the air colder, as though the house itself was slowly suffocating me.
One evening, after another restless day, I ventured back to the Bayou’s edge, hoping the dampness of the air would offer me some reprieve from the relentless dread that plagued my every waking moment. The crows had not yet come again in full force, but I felt their presence lurking—waiting.
The fog had begun to roll in from the water, thick and cloying, curling around my feet like a slithering creature. I reached the banks, my breath visible in the chill. The quietness of the Bayou at night had always unsettled me, but now it felt different—hushed, as though the land itself were holding its breath.
I was not alone.
From the mist emerged a figure, silhouetted against the pale moonlight. At first, I thought it was a trick of the fog, but as it drew closer, I realized it was a man—a stranger, tall and lean, his face obscured by the wide brim of a weathered hat. He carried no weapon, but his presence alone sent a shiver down my spine.
He stopped a few paces from me, as if sizing me up. I stood still, my heart hammering in my chest.
“You’re the one,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping across stone. “The Garceau boy.”
I nodded hesitantly. “I am. And you are?”
The stranger grinned, a cold, unsettling expression. “They call me Solomon. I’ve been around these parts longer than most care to remember.” He glanced toward the water, his eyes narrowing. “Your family… they’ve been meddling in things they shouldn’t have, haven’t they?”
I swallowed hard, unsure whether to trust him, but something about him felt as if he knew more about me than I cared to admit. “What do you know about the Garceaus?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned in, his breath mixing with the damp air, and spoke in a near whisper. “I know things that would make your skin crawl, boy. But I ain’t here to scare you—well, not yet. What I’m here to tell you is that the house is cursed. It’s a part of you, and you’re a part of it. The boy you saw—the one by the water—he’s just one of many. There are others. And they won’t rest until you know the truth of your blood.”
My head spun with confusion, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the man’s words. “What truth? What do you mean by ‘others’?”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, weathered book. He handed it to me, the pages yellowed with age, as if it had been passed through countless hands before mine. I opened it carefully, my fingers brushing against the brittle parchment, and saw pages filled with strange symbols—an occult language I did not understand.
Solomon’s voice was barely audible above the whispering wind. “Your family struck a pact long ago. And now the debt must be repaid.”
I closed the book, my mind racing. “What kind of pact? What debt?”
“The kind that demands a life in exchange,” he replied, his voice solemn. “That house you call home? It’s not just brick and mortar—it’s alive. A vessel. A place of power. Your bloodline is tied to it, Tobias. Your mother… she was the key. She unleashed something she couldn’t control. And now, it’s come to collect.”
I felt a wave of nausea crash over me. “What do you want from me?”
Solomon stepped back, his gaze hardening. “I’m not here to collect. I’m here to warn you. You can run. You can leave this cursed land. But as long as you remain, as long as you carry the Garceau name, it will haunt you. The Bayou never forgets.”
He turned to leave, his long coat billowing behind him, disappearing into the mist. But as he walked away, I felt a heavy weight settle on my chest. I knew in that moment that no matter what Solomon had said, I could never leave. The Garceau name, the mansion, and the curse—they were a part of me. I was tied to them, bound by something darker than I could comprehend.
As the mist thickened and swallowed Solomon’s figure, I stood alone at the edge of the Bayou, the ominous caw of the crows filling the air. My fate was sealed. I had no choice but to face the truth of my bloodline—and the darkness that lurked within.
The hidden secrets of the mansion and the Garceaus remain unknown to the outside world. Only the kindred dead, bound by blood and black magic, know the full weight of their dark power.
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