Phantom Evil. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      Dedicated to the Hotel Monteleone,

       and the wonderful staff there,

       and to everyone who has helped me all these years

       to keep Writers for New Orleans up and about—

      and our writers writing on for the

       beautiful and historical city of New Orleans!

      Dennis Hewitt, Jorge Cortazar, Irwin Lee, Michael Montgomery,

       Elsa Trochez, Wayne Crawford, Bertilla Burton, Kathy Bass (Le Café),

      Lucille Williams (Le Café), Estefania Ramirez, Kelly Morgan,

       “Albe” Hendrix, Ricky Jones, Al Barras, Burt Robinson, Darren Carey,

       Joseph Lecour, Ken Dillion, Robert Kotish, Ruoal Vives, Alex Olisevsci

      Lawrence Williams, Keith Donatto, Marvin Andrade,

      Grace Bocklud, Bryan Isbell (Royal AV)

      Chef Randy Buck (Executive Chef), Chef Jose Munguia (Sous Chef),

       Chef Ming Duong (Pastry Chef), Fred Connerly, Jorge Melara,

       Renee Penny, Hilda Henderson, Thomas Joseph

      At Fifi Mahoney’s—the world’s most amazing wig shop

      Brian Peterson, Marcy Hesseling, Nikki McCoy, Jamie Gandy,

       Bobby Munroe, Megan Lunz

      And at Harrah’s

      Jordan Smith, K. Brandt

      And…very especially, Sheila Vincent,

       who has gone above and beyond for us, so very many times!

      writersforneworleans.com

      theoriginalheathergraham.com

      eheathergraham.com

      PROLOGUE

       The house on Dauphine

       “Mommy.”

      She had dozed, Regina Holloway thought. Sheer exhaustion from the work she engaged in at the house on Dauphine Street. Sheer exhaustion had finally allowed her to drift off to sleep. The word, the whisper, was something she had conjured in her mind; she had been so desperate to hear it spoken again.

      Waking, not opening her eyes, she listened to what was real. The sound of musicians down the street, and the spattering of applause that followed their jazz numbers. The deep, sad heartbeat of the saxophone. The distant noise of the mule-driven carriages that took tourists around the historic French Quarter. Sometimes, the sound of laughter.

      She breathed in the smell of pine cleaner, which they had been using on the house. Beneath it—drifting in from the open French doors that led to the courtyard of the beautiful home—was the sweet scent of the magnolia trees that grew against the rear wall. They’d finally gotten their home in the French Quarter, with its subtle and underlying hint of strange days gone by.

      Some said that it was haunted by those days, by that history, certainly not always so pleasant. This house had been, after all, owned by Madden C. Newton, the killer who had terrorized many a victim in the years following the Civil War. The tour group carriages rolled by with tales of ghosts and ghastly visions seen by previous owners. But neither she nor David believed in ghosts, and the house had been a steal. Now, of course, she longed with her whole heart to believe in ghosts. If they existed, she might see her Jacob again.

      But ghosts were not real.

      The house was a house. Brick, wood, mortar, lath, plaster and paint. She and David had both grown up on the “other” side of town; they had dreamed of owning such a house. They had, however, never dreamed that they would live in it alone.

      Yes, she knew what was real, and what wasn’t. She was learning to live without the painkillers that had gotten her through the first months after Jacob had been lost. The painkillers had given her several strange visions, but none of them ghostly.

       “Mommy.”

      But she heard the word, and she heard it clearly. She opened her eyes, and a scream froze in her throat.

      A little boy stood there. A little boy just about Jacob’s age, seven. He was dressed in Victorian-era breeches, a little vest and frock coat, knickers and boots.

      And an ax blade cut into his skull, the shaft protruding from it. A trail of blood seeped down the sides of his face.

      “Mommy, it hurts. It hurts so badly. Help me, Mommy,” he said, looking at her with wide, blue, trusting eyes.

      She so desperately wanted to scream. She had seen her son in dreams, but this wasn’t her son. She knew the stories about the house, knew about the murders that had taken place here just after the Civil War….

      Yes, she knew, but at the worst of times, she hadn’t had such strange and horrible visions.

      He wasn’t real.

      Sounds emitted from her at last. Not screams. Just sounds. Sounds of terror, like the nonsense chatter of an infant. She wanted to scream.

       “Mommy, please. Mommy, I need you.”

      It wasn’t Jacob, and it wasn’t Jacob’s voice. And Jacob had been killed in a car accident six months ago; a drunk driver had nearly killed them all, veering over three lanes on I-10 late at night.

      Jacob had died at the hospital, in her arms. He had been buried at Lafayette Cemetery, dressed in his baseball uniform, which he had loved so dearly. She wasn’t hearing her son’s voice.

      Just his words.

       Mommy, it hurts. It hurts so badly. Help me, Mommy.

      Jacob’s