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Dark Heritage

By CF Sherrow

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CHAPTER 1

So this was how it felt to be a lab rat.
Her psychiatrist hadn’t looked up in an age . . . not since they finished chatting about Diana’s week. Evelyn Masters, MD, always took copious session notes, but today’s wait was especially excruciating. The silence stirred painful stakeout memories of Diana’s final days at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. What could the doctor find so all-fired fascinating about a mixed-race thirty-five-year-old with a failed law enforcement career?
Enigmatic Dr. Masters—nice enough, but an unidentifiable “something” surfaced sporadically. Ever-present drab suits leaned more toward boring than professional. So did her mousy brown hair and nondescript little silver earrings.
Diana Foster fidgeted on the blue plaid loveseat. Usually it was fine, but for some reason she just couldn’t settle in today. She rubbed her stiffened fingers—those knuckles would benefit from a good cracking. Not right now, though.
There was nothing to read but the framed certificates marching in single file across the opposite wall. Quick mental math revealed her shrink had been practicing for half of Diana’s life. You’d think all those years would have improved her treatment skills, made things move a little faster. Maybe that’s why they called it a “practice”.
Dr. Masters raised her head and stared across the room, never quite meeting Diana’s gaze. Then, “Thank you for your patience, Ms. Foster. As you know, accuracy is crucial.” Her pen returned to its duties.
Diana shifted again, looking for something that might pique her interest. There—a five-inch golden sphinx crouched among the professional volumes crowding the cherry bookcase. Odd placement, to her mind.
The AC kicked in with a quiet whoosh.
Diana whooshed out her breath in tandem with the unit. Good thing her job provided health insurance, even though the “approved” doctor list was mighty short.
She sat back and crossed her long legs, stifling a yawn and surreptitiously checking the time. No sense in giving offense.
Dr. Master finally returned her pen to its distinctive holder: an obelisk topped by an illustrated model of the human brain. She removed her chained reading glasses. “Ms. Foster, have you given any further consideration to taking antidepressants?”
Finally, a question. “I’ve thought about it some—been on different ones in past years but none of them helped much. Most of ‘em made things worse. Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “I’m not going through all that again.”
“Several new ones with fewer side effects have been marketed recently. You should at least try them before you make a final decision.” The doctor cleared her throat. “You could always reconsider at a later date.”
Diana raised her left eyebrow and her right hand. Counting on her fingers, she tallied the results. “Propranolol slowed my heart rate so I couldn’t run. Couldn’t do my job if a suspect rabbited. Bupropion made my ears ring. A couple of others gave me a bad case of cotton mouth. Not a good track record.” She grimaced. “So, do you have any better suggestions?”
Dr. Master pursed her lips. “I must remind you that reacting badly to a medication does not mean you will respond similarly to others. More than one type is often needed. I have several clients who must take a regimen of three or four different prescriptions to maintain control over their mental and emotional conditions.”
She reached for her prescription pad and perched her glasses on her nose once more. “I’m sure you will make much better progress when we are able to design a program that suits your needs.”
“Dr. Masters, with all due respect, you don’t live in my body. I hate the side effects. And no pill has ever kept the nightmares away. I can deal with most of the other stuff on my own, but—” She scrubbed her curled fingers through her nearly black shoulder-length hair.
“Have your nightmares returned?”
“They never left! I haven’t slept well in months. Years, really.”
“I understand. Would you like something just for sleep?” The psychiatrist steepled her fingers as she leaned forward.
“No, ma’am.” Diana shook her head again. “I’ve tried that, too. They either kept me drowsy the next day or they made the nightmares worse—or both. I do shift work so I have to be able to sleep at odd hours. No. No drugs.”
Admittedly, she had learned a few self-help skills. Refocusing intrusive daytime memories helped give her some feeling of control. Relaxation techniques did relieve a little of her anxiety.
It was just all so blamed limited!
Diana desperately wanted to return to a reasonably normal life even if it couldn’t be with the FBI. If only that missing child case hadn’t fallen in her lap four years ago. She mentally shook herself. The past was past, and she just had to live with it.
“Very well.” Dr. Masters said. “Please let me know if you change your mind at any time. Let’s talk about your dreams again. Are they the same ones or is this something new?”
Diana took a deep breath, barely containing her anger. It threatened to boil over, both at the ineffectiveness of treatment and at her newfound weaknesses. She should be able to handle this! “Like I said, the nightmares never left. They got better for a while but now they’re worse than ever. And sometimes I wake up with bruises for no good reason. It’s driving me ’round the bend!” She twisted the hem of her long charcoal gray T-shirt. It’d soon end up in the Goodwill box at this rate.
“Now, Ms. Foster, try to remain calm. I’m sure there is a logical explanation for all this. Have you ever been a sleepwalker?” Dr. Masters asked.
“Not that I know of. But if I got hurt bad enough to cause bruises, wouldn’t that wake me up?”
“It would seem likely, but stranger things have happened.” Dr. Masters smiled slightly. “I remember a client who was a sleep eater. She actually raided the refrigerator in the middle of the night, always sound asleep. In the morning she found remnants of her snacks scattered over the counters.”
“But she never got hurt—of course she didn’t wake up! My situation is totally different!” Diana jumped out of her chair, fists clenched. “Look, Dr. Masters, if you can’t help just tell me now and I’ll try to find somebody who can.” She gasped as her chest tightened with the volatile mix of fear and anger.
Dr. Masters rolled her chair back to gaze up at the client whose five feet, ten inch height dwarfed her. Her steady voice radiated authority. “Ms. Foster, please remember your self-control exercises. You are able to calm yourself.” She modeled the exercise as she talked, placing a hand on her abdomen. Her right foot hovered at the security call button hidden under her desk. “Take a deep breath—”
“Not now! I need to talk. Just listen to me!”
“Very well. I’m listening. What is it you need to tell me?” She repositioned her chair. Her demeanor reflected caution, but not fear—never fear.
Diana felt her racing heart slow. Maybe she could trust the doctor . . . at least she could try. She returned to the couch and perched on the edge of it. Her gripping fingers indented the cushion. Her knuckles whitened as she fought through her jumbled thoughts to find the right words.
They had dealt with her current stressors: work and finances. Her difficulties at the FBI: discussed. The nightmares: evaluated and re-evaluated. Diagnosis and treatment: accomplished.
She had not recovered.
Something more than psychological distress was at work. This felt sinister.
“Dr. Masters, I . . . this might sound weird, but what do you think about demons?”
The doctor stared at her client while two fingers of her right hand slowly tapped her chin. “Interesting question. I’ve never really thought about it.”
She straightened her back and folded her arms, rocking back slightly in her chair. “I know that historically, demons were blamed for many mental and physical illnesses that are now treated with medication. Modern literature indicates no one really knows about demonic existence. I’ve been taught that demons are simply a myth to help people cope with unexplained adversity.”
“How about plain old evil?”
“Ah, now that is a different matter altogether. I do believe evil exists. I’ve seen too many barbaric acts perpetrated by human beings upon one another to think evil is only a concept. Somehow, people find a way to sink to the basest level and allow evil to guide their actions. If only they would rise to their highest potential instead.” Dr. Masters shook her head sadly. “The innate purity of the human mind is the only hope for mankind.”
Diana sat back. So far, so good. But what if she exposed the rest of it?
She couldn’t hide any longer, not if they were ever going to find an explanation for what had been happening to her. She chewed the inside of her cheek. A sudden sharp pain led to the taste of blood.
“Ms. Foster,” Dr. Masters asked, “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
This was it. The elephant in the room had stirred.
Diana’s stomach felt like two bull elk battled for a harem in there. She willed herself to relax. Took a deep breath. Blew it out through her nostrils. Another.
“I’m not quite sure where to start, but . . .”
The doctor nodded in silence with scarcely a raise of her eyebrow.
“My grand-mére, she raised me. She was a mambo—a voodoo priestess. We lived in the woods outside New Orleans and she wanted me to be her successor. More than that, she issued a decree to her people about it when I was six or seven. And I remember she gave me a met tet on my fifth birthday.” Diana swallowed hard before she continued in a breathless rush. “That’s when I started joining in the ceremonies and I’ve always had bad dreams about when her followers took me to the sacred glade of live oak, and the Spanish moss and the torches under the new moon made it really scary with the shadows and everything and we invited the loa spirits to take over and—”
Dr. Masters held up her hand. “What exactly is a met tet, Ms. Foster?”
“Wha . . . what?” She forced herself to focus. After a quick head shake, Diana responded, “It’s a protector. Kinda like a spirit guide.”
“I see.” the pen jotted briefly. “You did tell me about the voodoo, but I don’t recall hearing about the met tet. Does it still protect you?”
Diana felt her pulse pounding in her temples. “Yes. It’s my best friend.” Sometimes her only friend. “But I never said nothing about the voodoo. Not to you, anyway!”
“Actually, yes, you did. I believe we talked briefly about it. Perhaps you were so distraught that you don’t remember mentioning it.”
“No, I . . . uh. Okay. Maybe it slipped out. Sorry.” How could she not remember something as recent as that?
“No need to apologize. Forgetting is nothing to be ashamed of, nor is it a rare occurrence. Please continue.”
Diana talked about the drums that seemed to emulate the human heartbeat and the sacrifice Grand-mere’s followers offered to honor her before every ceremony. “We got to eat fresh chicken the next day, but there’s still icy fingers on my gullet whenever I think about that poor terrified bird squawking and squalling.”
“I understand completely. But voodoo is simply another type of religion, as you know. Please don’t berate yourself for your feelings or your actions. You were a child following instructions. That chicken has nothing to do with you now.”
“Yeah, I know you’re right about that. But what truly bothers me is thinking about how they all danced like they didn’t know what they were doing. Like they didn’t care how weird it all was. Some of them even fell down on the ground and writhed like snakes. It was like Damballah Wedo entered them and took over. He’s the snake loa, a very powerful spirit. That always scared me spitless. ’Course I couldn’t do anything about it.” She swallowed the bile that rose into her throat and then rubbed her suddenly aching jaw. “The worst part is I don’t know what memories are real. And I’ve been having some doozies come up lately, especially if it rains on a muggy night. But always just bits and pieces!” She angrily dashed a tear from the corner of her eye. Crying over a stupid memory, and in front of her shrink? She was never like this at the FBI. What was wrong with her?
Dr. Masters held out a box of tissues. “Which memories are you certain about? They are probably the strongest and clearest in your mind. The most real, if you wish.”
Diana stared unseeing at the ceiling for a few moments, ignoring the proffered box. “I remember hearing the cicadas buzzing and Grand-mére coming to my room on hot nights—not like there’s many cold nights around there. She’d wake me up to tell me it was time for a ceremony. No arguing with her. Then she’d watch me change into the white shift she sewed just for that. Sometimes she told me I’d better not cry, but honestly, I gave up early on. It was just a whole lot easier to go dead inside than feel all that stuff.”
“What kinds of feelings? Describe them as best you can.”
A frisson of fear ran up Diana’s spine. “I wish I could tell you. Can’t quite put a finger on them, other than creepy. Scary, maybe. Well, more than that, but—”
“Again, you were only a child. Children often have trouble identifying emotions. Please continue.”
“Okay, let me think . . . I remember seeing those folks around town the next day acting like nothin’ was different. I could never figure out how those grownups could let all that happen—ask for it to happen—and then seem so normal later. Demons at night, shopkeepers and maids and councilmen in the morning.” She shook her head. “Little kids always think grownups are strange, but this . . . well, ‘over the top’ fits.”
Dr. Masters scribbled furiously before lowering her pen and gazing at Diana over her reading glasses. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me? We still have about five minutes.”
“Just a couple more things.” Diana nodded. “I went away to college instead of finishing up my voodoo training. I wanted to help kids be safe. Not like me.”
“An admirable goal. Although, from what you’ve said, the law enforcement field didn’t treat you very well.”
Diana shook her head slowly as she rubbed the tension from the back of her neck. She wouldn’t rise to the bait. It hadn’t been their fault. Just hers.
“You know, I’ve often thought Grand-mére might have been a bokor. That’s a voodoo sorceress, like an evil witch. Folks came from all around to get their mambo to mix up love potions and medicinal herbs for their ailments, but I seem to remember some other stuff that came after the ceremonies were over. I think maybe she put curses on folks that gave her trouble. She would have called on the spirits to do it. Even let them use my body, like I was their reward or something.”
Diana couldn’t believe Dr. Masters had pulled this out of her, too. “Lately I’ve been thinking maybe she ruled the whole area where we lived. She sure had enough power for it. Dark power. Lots of people seemed like they walked on eggshells around her. It’s all pretty fuzzy, but . . . I don’t know.”
She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, exhausted from her fifty-minute hour. “I really don’t feel like talking anymore.”
The office atmosphere thickened in the silence before the doctor finally stood and tugged her jacket down over her hips.
“That was a lot to discuss today, Diana. But don’t worry, we’ll get it all straightened out eventually. You have nothing to worry about. Trust me.”

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