Pretty Nightmare (Creeping Beautiful Book 2) by JA Huss

Author:JA Huss [Huss, JA]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Science Future Press
Published: 2020-05-25T18:30:00+00:00

It takes a good hour to fill the hole back in. And by the time we’re done, we’re filthy.

“No way is McKay not gonna say something when we pull into Old Home looking like a pair of midnight gravediggers.”

I turn left on Burgundy and then ease the truck up to a tall, wrought-iron gate. “Let me worry about that.”

“What’s this place?”

“You’ve been here before.”

“When?”

“Oh…” I think back a little. “You were probably four the last time we stopped by.”

“Hmm. I think I’d remember that. Four was only two years ago. And this place is… nice.” She leans forward in her seat and looks up at the tallness of the compact French Quarter mansion I grew up in. “Nothing like that cemetery. Why did your father bury your brother in that place, anyway? It’s”—she wrinkles her nose—“not right.”

She probably didn’t notice that Holt Cemetery was wrecked when we entered it because it was the middle of the night. But there was no way to miss the fact that the old resting place for local New Orleans indigents was in complete disarray when we left in the glow of a morning dawn.

“I guess we’d have to ask him to know for sure.” That’s the standard answer I made up back in my teens when I was still trying to piece together my life. The Boucher family mausoleum is located just west of Old Home, on a mostly untouched piece of wild land about halfway between the property and Pearl Springs.

“Hmm. Well. Neither here nor there, I suppose. He wasn’t buried there.” Maggie wipes a hand across her nose as I get out of the truck and open the wrought-iron gate. This mansion has been here for nearly two hundred years and even though driveways in this part of the French Quarter are nearly unheard of, we have one.

I get back in and ease the truck up the driveway, put it in park, and then turn the engine off. “OK. Let’s go. We’re gonna clean up here and then head home.” I check the time on my phone. “It’s only six-forty-five. We’ll be fine if we play it right.”

She looks down at herself, then at me. “We look like gravediggers.”

“Not for long.” I reach behind me and grab a garment bag. “By the time we leave here we’ll look like we’re heading home from church.”

“Oh.” Mags laughs, points at me. “That’s good. You’re so clever.”

“I do my best.”

We get out and walk around the truck to the front of the house. It’s a stately white Greek Revival mansion that is three stories tall and has really over-the-top columns and a two-sided porch. Very traditional French Quarter architecture with tall, skinny, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street. You can’t see the top floor from the street, because it’s set back. And the bottom floor is more like a garden level. But the fucking place is imposing. Especially when you’re six. I know. I lived here when I was six.

“Wow.” Maggie is in awe even though Boucher Manor is less than one third the size of Boucher House back on the Old Pearl River.

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