Echoes of Ballard House (Simone Doucet Series Book 3)

Book summary

"Echoes of Ballard House" unveils hidden secrets and unearthed truths as Simone Doucet housesits an opulent mansion in New Orleans' Garden District. Whispers of ancient voices, eerie parrot mimics, and elusive footsteps lead her to discover she's not alone. Entangled in the stories of tormented souls, Simone faces a bone-chilling tale of murder that extends beyond the spectral world, confronting evil from both the living and the dead in her quest to uncover the dark secret within the walls of Ballard House.

Excerpt from Echoes of Ballard House (Simone Doucet Series Book 3)

WHAT WAS SHE TRYING TO TELL ME? I park the Jeep Wrangler beneath a two-hundred-year-old oak tree with fern-covered limbs spread across Prytania Street, open the window, and sit motionless in thought. Spring wafts through the chilled interior, hints of jasmines, gardenias, hydrangeas, and privets, redolent of my parent’s funeral, overrun with several genera of flowers. The sweet, sickly fragrance conjures their death during my college sophomore year and the painful loss I wouldn’t have survived without Aunt Miranda.

“JT, my sweet boy,” whispers Miranda's voice in my mind, as though she sits beside me in the passenger seat. Never using my first and middle name, Jensen Thaddeus, she called me JT from the moment she laid eyes on me as a child. Her love was the solace that filled the void my parents' untimely death created.

Recalling the reluctance in her voice and unspoken words on my last visit, I narrow my eyes and stare straight ahead, mumbling to myself, “I know you wanted to tell me something.”

“I’ll see you soon, sweet boy.”

I kissed her papery cheek three weeks ago; unaware it would be my last kiss goodbye. If only I’d known, I would have heeded her plea and stayed longer, not rushed back to unimportant paperwork at the office.

I sit on the edge of the driver’s seat, my eyes fixed on the familiar street flanked by grand historic Greek Revival, Italianate, and Victorian mansions. Behind a privet-lined gate, my family’s white Queen Anne Victorian comes into view, nestled amidst live oak, cypress, and magnolia trees. At a distance from the street, a hibiscus-marigold cobbled path leads to the front steps. The view evokes memories of my twelve-year-old self dashing from the glass-paneled doors to my parents’ car twenty-three years ago and countless nights when creaks echoed around Ballard House.

A frisson ripples down my spine, recalling blood oozing from the floors, agonizing cries, scampering footsteps around the room, the bedroom door flapping like a fan, and a loud splintering clunk to the floor. I dove beneath the covers, resurfacing when sunlight broke through my bedsheet. Dashing into my clothes, I raced outside to the front porch, where I remained for hours with my feet on the wicker chair, unwilling to touch the floor or go back inside the home.

Miranda perched beside me with a heavy sigh. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said, dropping her face to my frozen twelve-year-old countenance and pulling me into her side. “It’s just harmless noise.” I lifted my gaze, detecting worry in her expression. “The house is old and complains like my creaking bones at night,” she continued.

It wasn’t just the creaks that frightened me, but the trickling blood and people I couldn’t see. Did she hear the loud thud? Was it a nightmare? That was the first and last nightmarish episode I’d experienced, but on every visit, Ballard House continued its nocturnal creaks.

When my parents’ car turned the corner that morning, I bolted from the porch to the SUV’s backseat. The vehicle they would perish in a fatal crash six years later, traveling to Princeton University parent’s weekend, my sophomore year. Several months afterward, nightmares of a passenger-less SUV arriving at my dorm haunted my sleep. The dreams ceased altogether when I accepted they were never coming back.

My foot hits the running board, and my leg dangles from the cabin. I squint at the midday sun shadowing mausoleums for the living, bordered by the neighboring mausoleums for the dead in Lafayette Cemetery. Amy, a friend and teenage crush I haven't seen in years, exits the white Greek Revival house across the street. I had befriended her on weekend visits to Aunt Miranda. She's blossomed into a good-looking woman and still has that girlish bounce as her dog pulls her along the street. Miranda told me seven months ago that Amy divorced her husband and moved back home to care for her ailing father, who passed away not too long ago. Returning home must have been difficult, given the animosity toward her family’s antiquated social mores. When she left for college, she vowed never to return. And she never did, returning only to bury her parents.

The dog races ahead, pulling Amy toward a tree where it stops, sniffs, and relieves itself on the trunk. Amy pauses with a look of annoyance and places her hand on her hip, pivoting her head toward the jeep. Believing she’s spotted me, I lift my hand with a hesitant wave, halting my gesturing when she doesn’t respond. Does Amy recognize me after eighteen years? I’m not that downy, round-faced boy she’d kissed when I left for college. My hollowed cheeks and angular jaw must appear different from the teenager she knew—a result of running college track and a rigorous workout that’s become a daily routine. We’d tried to stay in contact over the years, a letter here and there, but drifted apart soon after college.

I realize she’s not staring at me but at another dog walker with a bright smile crossing the street toward her. She kisses him on the mouth and clasps his hand, evoking the sticky cherry lip gloss I’d tasted on her lips that blazing August day, making out on her twin bed. Our teenage awkwardness induces a grin and a cringe, recalling her creepy brother busting in and taunting Amy to tears, her hatred and fear of Billie unmistakable on that blistering day. Ahead, she and the other dog walker continue around the corner with a command and tug on their dog’s leashes.

Freed from small talk and another condolence, I release a sharp breath, slide from the Jeep with a swift close of the door, beeping it locked. Tucking the key fob in my pocket, I fasten my gaze on the tree roots protruding through the cobbled sidewalk and continue toward the privet-lined gate on careful footing. I enter the passcode, etched on my brain like the floral engravings on the wrought-iron spires, into the console, and the lock clicks.

As I enter the gate, I glance up at the white balcony circling Miranda’s bedroom on the second floor, expecting to see her waving as she did throughout my boyhood. My gaze slips to the off-street parking beside the home where her faithful Mercedes has sat idle since her eyesight failed three years ago. Anguish from her lost independence echoes in my memory. I wipe my sweaty brow and continue along the privet-lined path, past fragrant marigolds and gardenias blossoming in the thick humidity. With my arrival expected, the front door opens long before I step onto the wrap-around porch.

WHISPERS AWAKEN AFTER DAYS of silent anticipation, hushed voices stirring within Ballard House walls. Every nook and cranny echoes a soft song, a symphony of creaks, cascading like falling dominos, weaving their way along the timeworn walls.

He’s come—

He’s come—

He’s close—

Yes, very close—

The front gate swings open and then shuts with a muted thud.

Will he help us?

Yes, I believe so. He’s the one—

Our hope, hope—

Hush now, my little one. He’s here—JT will set things right… Set things right now that Miranda is gone. Hush… hush… shhhhhhhhhhhhh!

The front door creaks open. Footsteps fall. The walls hold their breath, coming to absolute silence.

“JT! Hello, sweetheart,” Anna, Miranda’s lifelong friend, greets me, rushing to the porch edge, arms open, folding me into her pillowy bosom.

Six years younger than Miranda at seventy, Anna always looks more youthful than her age. How will she cope without her faithful companion? Friends before I was born, raised on Prytania Street, their parents’ alliance brought them together, a bond that’s lasted through their marriages, the birth of their children, widowhood, and now severed by death.

Raw emotions from losing her constant companion, just five days before, seep through the fabric of my shirt.

“Oh, darn, sorry,” she apologizes, dabbing at the linen sleeve. She steps back, taking me in and wiping her eyes. “This day has come too soon.” Her voice is low and solemn. “It will never feel the same without her here,” she admits, motioning with her hand and leading me through the vestibule.

My shoes clack-clack-clack on the hardwood floors, reverberating from the foyer up the winding stairway. The airy home still smells of new furniture purchased a year ago, the ever-present scent of Miranda’s lemon essential oils mingled with the woody musk of cardboard boxes. Miranda’s figure mirages on the sofa with a fond expression she assumed whenever I visited, an image I cling to, never wanting to forget her smile.

We pass through the parlor into the formal dining room, heaped with boxes and bubble wrap. With items scattered around the table, Anna kept the large crystal glass bowl filled with lemons undisturbed in the exact spot Miranda preferred on the table. A fan of Feng Shui, Miranda believed lemons brought good fortune and warded off negative energy, which I always interpreted as evil spirits. The home is never without lemons, a product of her prized lemon trees in the backyard. An abundance she used for cooking, her essential oil concoction (sprayed around the house like holy water), and as gifts to friends and associates packed in decorative gift baskets.

I recall the ever-present crystal bowl with nine lemons, which Miranda kept in the southwest corner of the kitchen, and my sarcastic comment about Chinese geomancy. She responded with a smile and an answer posed as a question. Why do you think we’re so fortunate? Our family business and wealth thrived for years because of genius, hard work, and astute practices, not an ancient tradition. Regardless, Miranda never once complained about the home’s negative spiritual energy. Maybe her measures worked, or she ignored the presence.

“I can’t believe she’s gone. The house feels hollow without her. Before you arrived, the walls creaked something awful,” Anna states.

“It’s just the wood swelling from the humidity.”

“I’ve lived long enough to know the humidity didn't cause the creaking. I might sound like an old fool, but I believe the house misses her, too,” she says.

“No.” I rub her shoulder. “You’re no fool, Anna,” I agree, recalling the loud creaks like angry voices in the wall that frightful night.

Anna wipes her eyes and brushes her moist fingers together. “I hope you realize she loved you like a son and worshiped the air you breathe. Her face…” she pauses, her lips trembling, “…lit up like a bulb whenever she saw you.”

“Miranda meant everything to me. I will miss her terribly.”

Anna purses her lips, wiping at a falling tear, and sighs. “Me, too… whew,” she murmurs, shaking her arms. “I think of her, and the tears flow again.”

Anna is like a family member—an integral part of Miranda’s history. Seeing her in pain rouses a protective gesture. I place my arm around her shoulder, pulling her into my side. “It’s only been a few days. We both got lots more grieving to do.”