Breaux Manor loomed over Bourbon Street for two centuries before Zula discovered it at auction. Abandoned for over a decade, cracks spider webbed its windows, and smoke swirled behind them as if a perpetual fire raged within.

Zula, a petite dark-skinned native of the bayou with a love of beautiful broken things, acquired the building along with a crumbling list of instructions.

Paint doors every tenth year with leaded paint to keep spells intact.

Do not open windows lest bad humors escape.

Do not engage Daemon on second floor.

Do not listen to the music. It lies.

Charmed by the peculiar warnings, Zula paid her new home a visit. Layers of paint adhered the slate-gray door to its frame. When she forced open, a fleck of paint broke free, landing atop her curls. Inside, the air was clear but for the taste of dust.

Zula toured the first floor, throwing open any window not painted shut, before heading upstairs.

The tap of leather soles against hardwood drew Zula to the front, where sunlight filtered through dirty windows to illuminate a lithe figure dancing. Gradually, music arose, as if conjured by his fluid movements. The beauty of it, of him, enchanted her.

The dancer tossed silken hair from his face, and the music whispered to her as he offered his hand. Zula took it.

The dancer smiled, plucking the fleck of paint from her hair, and pulled her into the dance.

Too late, she noticed the smoke swirling in his eyes.

Photo by Rob Ashley