Cursed

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Marie Toussaint moved as fast as her plump body would go down the street running between the Iberville Projects and an expansive cemetery located just outside the French Quarter of New Orleans. The early autumn night was chilly enough to make her shiver despite the gown she wore. Street lamps rendered the sidewalk well-lit while the graveyard and side streets were shrouded in darkness.

As a member of a culture that revered death and celebrated the transition of a person from flesh into a spirit, Marie normally felt comfortable – honored even – to be anywhere near the tombs of the deceased.

Except when she came to the city.

Evil lurked somewhere in the cemeteries of New Orleans, and it scared her more than the Projects at night. She dug through her pocket to grab a good luck gris-gris she created for herself, a chicken claw and cat foot bound with the hair of a loved one and blessed by no less than two magic spells. Comforted by the charm, she focused on the rhythmic clicking of her bone and wooden bracelets instead of the unwelcoming city around her.

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