Some motherfucker locked me in a coffin.
With all the padding around me, I could move only a few inches on each side and above. The claustrophobia kicked in within microseconds causing my heart to race and body to sweat. My clothing soaked through in a couple of minutes. Now I was hot, wet, and hyperventilating. I needed to find a way out of there.
“Help! Let me out! I’m not dead!”
Why would someone put me in a casket? Someone was pulling a prank on me, right? Who would do such a thing? I had no enemies, family, or friends. My life entailed working and being home, with occasional shopping in between.
The box jolted and I detected the hum of a motor. Was I descending? Were they putting me into a grave?
“No! Stop! Stop!” I shoved on the lid, but it wouldn’t give way. With the limited space, my arms were bent too far for me to generate any strength.
“I’m alive! You have to stop! Please!” Attempts to bust my way out of the casket proved futile. The cramped space kept me from pulling my fists far enough back to put any force in the punches.
“Please! Don’t do this!”
I realized the cushioned lining all around me absorbed my screams. No matter how loudly I yelled, nobody would ever hear my voice.
This had to be a dream, right?
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.” I tried pinching myself all over, even my sensitive breasts, but my situation didn’t change.
The casket resonated with a thud when it landed at the bottom. Many would accept the inevitable, but I refused. I pounded until my fists hurt. I screamed until my voice broke. I cried until no tears would flow.
Muffled thuds of dirt landed on the coffin, a sound signaling a finality. After hitting the lid several more times with my fist, the phalanx bones in my right hand cracked. Severe pain resonated up my arm.
The bile from my stomach caught me by surprise. Slimy liquid came up along with whatever comprised my last meal. I turned my head sideways to keep from choking on the crap coming from my mouth. What did I last eat? If there were lights, I might be able to guess.
The intense stench of the disgusting vomitus dashed any hopes of this being a dream. Your senses didn’t work in a dream, right? I spat out the last remnants of my stomach contents and wiped my mouth. My taste buds might never recover.
The thuds of the dirt got softer as the grave filled. Every time I inhaled and exhaled, the stabbing pain in my chest intensified. Sleepiness crept in, making it harder to keep my eyes open. Death wouldn’t be far behind. A coffin held only so much oxygen.
Out of options, I gasped for air.
“Let me go,” a female voice whispered.
“Who the fuck is that?” My lips stuck together when I spoke because my mouth contained no moisture.
“You know who I am,” she said. “Let me go.”
People with near death experiences usually said their lives flashed before them as the end neared. I didn’t see shit. The darkness closed in as I tried to breathe one more time.
“La Voisin curses you,” the voice whispered again.
A loud screech filled the coffin. Was it my mind’s last-ditch effort to survive? Had my murderers come back to save me? Would they dig me out in time? With all my energy, I tried to scream.
The bottom dropped out of the casket, and I fell. My head hit something on the way down, and my body landed on a cold, solid surface. Darkness gave way to light. As I peered around, it took me a few seconds to realize I rolled off my bed.
Getting to my feet took much more effort than expected. I turned off the alarm on my phone and rubbed the knot on my head. Five consecutive nights of the same nightmare had exhausted me to no end. I remembered every second, every excruciating detail. In what kind of dream did your senses work? Why did I have the same one night after night?
Now I’d have a headache all fucking day. I looked at the top of my bed and cringed. Once again, vomitus covered one side of my pillow. The pieces of food covered in stomach acid explained the pungent flavors in my mouth. When I inhaled deeply, the telltale odors of sweat and urine filled my lungs. Son-of-a-bitch. The fifth motherfucking night in a row, and it ended the same way: vomit, sweat, and piss.
I stripped the bed and tossed the sheets in the wash. Thank God I had a waterproof mattress cover. A little vinegar and water took care of the odor. The duvet survived the onslaught of bodily fluids, so I wouldn’t have to wash it this time. Those damned things took forever to dry.
The nightmare rattled me more than the other four times. A voice had spoken to me. At least I thought one did. Most likely my brain played tricks on me. I turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm.
La Voisin.
I made a mental note to look up the phrase. My subconscious probably selected random words and phrases to feed back to me.
Even though I merely dreamed about trying to bust out of a coffin, my body felt otherwise. Both knees and my right hand screamed in pain from slamming against the imaginary coffin.
After the water fell on me for a while, I scrubbed for another five minutes to remove the urine odor. The water soothed my aching arms and legs, although a massage would feel better.
I turned off the shower and dried myself. My mouth didn’t feel clean until I had brushed my teeth three times. Only then did I start feeling human again. A few minutes later, I was dressed in my gray pinstriped suit and ready for work.
Living in the building where you work had its perquisites. Some people preferred to live as far away from their job as possible, but I didn’t mind being one door away from my office. I slept later, worked later, and went to the office on weekends—all without wasting time driving.
When I pushed the door open to my office, I discovered my assistant putting a few folders on my desk.
“Good morning, Devon. What do you have for me?”
If I were straight, his mere presence would be a constant distraction. He had brown hair, dimples, and mesmerizing blue eyes, all on an athletic frame about my five-foot-ten height. At first, Devon seemed cautious around me. His attitude changed when he discovered I was queer.
“Morning, Grace. I was getting ready to call you. Our early blood drive found an Rh-null.” Devon handed me a folder from the top of the pile.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” The lab report verified what he said. “What’s the situation?”
“She’s forty-five, unmarried, and works as a librarian.”
“Family?”
“None listed. Her emergency contact is her boss.”
The company had monopolized my life for the past five years. The idea came to me when I read an article about rare blood types. Too many people died or suffered because hospitals had inadequate supplies of rare blood products. I saw the opportunity to serve communities and jumped at it. My grandfather had left me a substantial stock portfolio. Once I developed a solid business plan, I liquidated the investments, purchased this building, and started the company.
In a nod to the rarest of the rare blood types in the world, I named my venture Golden Blood. Fewer than fifty people worldwide had no Rh factors in their blood, which was why they called it “golden blood.”
Only about ten active donors of golden blood existed. We had one of them, but she was old. This second person would be a backup. The demand for golden blood remained high because of its compatibility with many people who had the rarest types.
“Does she know how rare her blood is?”
“No, and we didn’t tell her.”
“Fabulous. We’ll add her to inventory. Bring her in as soon as possible.”
A business that focused on blood with rare Rh factors made me a rich woman. Communities throughout the country had a constant need for rare blood, with demand always greater than the amount donated. Above my office and residence, five floors of in-house donors filled these needs. They never complained, always showed up on time, and didn’t ask for anything in return.
Of course, they all lay in comas. Some existed in a persistent vegetative state while others suffered from locked-in syndrome. Nobody outside this company knew they were here, which was how I preferred it. We’d be in prison if anyone ever asked how they ended up in under our care. To help avoid that, we made sure the paperwork showed proper blood donations from our mobile units. Our labs on the two underground floors ensured our records remained impeccable.
“You should know that we’re having a problem with Jenny Toussaint.”
“Christ, Devon. What now?”
“She woke up again last night. This time, she pulled out her IVs.”
I slammed the folder on my desk. “She’s been trouble ever since she came out of her coma. Can’t our fucking medical staff keep her asleep? She barely weighs eighty pounds, for Christ’s sake!”
“They upped the pentobarbital, but she keeps adapting to it. Last night was the fifth night in a row.”
The words swirled around in my head for a few seconds before landing on the part of my brain paying attention. “Did you say fifth night in a row? Why am I only now learning about this?”
The look on Devon’s face resembled a kid getting caught stealing candy. He had a sheepish look like he was embarrassed. What was he holding back from me? “Okay, Devon, out with it.”
“Jenny said your name last night when she woke.”
“Bullshit. She doesn’t even know me.”
“Nurse Evans heard it clearly when she tightened Jenny’s restraints.”
“The nurse should be more concerned about why she can’t keep an eighteen-year-old girl asleep!”
Losing my temper wouldn’t help. Disturbing dreams never got to me like this before. I dropped into my office chair and closed my eyes. “Sorry, Devon. I’m tired and frustrated.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes. Bring me Jenny’s file.”
This contemptuous teenager broke through her sedatives the same nights I had the repeating nightmare. Were they be related? Was I crazy even thinking such a thing?
La Voisin.
All I wanted to do was sleep and my mind kept saying those words.
“Here.”
Devon’s voice jerked me back from that point right before you nodded off. The sound made me sit straight and grab the edge of my desk. He handed me the inch-thick file. “Thanks. That’ll be all for now.”
I opened my laptop and pushed the power button. While the computer booted, I looked in Jenny’s file. People on ventilators sometimes became resistant to sedatives after a few weeks. That didn’t apply to her. Until she came out of her coma ten days ago, Jenny hadn’t needed sedation.
The bump on my head started throbbing. I got a Tylenol from my desk drawer and opened my mini refrigerator next to my desk. Somehow, it reminded me of the coffin. I grabbed a can of Diet Coke and slammed the door shut.
La Voisin.
“Stop it!” Great. Now I’m screaming at nothing. I popped the pill in my mouth and took a big swig of the soda. If they ever developed a way to administer caffeine a half hour before waking, I would buy it no matter the cost.
Once I entered my password, I opened a new tab to Google search. When I entered “La Voisin,” all these articles popped up about a French sorceress executed in 1680. “Well, I don’t have to worry about her.”
The other articles contained the same information. My dying brain in the dream had been imagining things. I closed the computer and opened Jenny’s file. Genevieve Toussaint, born eighteen years ago last month. She suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car accident a year ago. Both parents had been killed, and she had no other relatives.
After being cared for at Chicago General Hospital’s Level IV Trauma Center, she fell into in a persistent vegetative state. The hospital transferred her to a long-term care facility a week later. A nurse there tipped us off about Jenny’s rare blood type. Now, the third richest man in the world paid Golden Blood a sizable monthly retainer for exclusive access to Jenny’s blood. We harvested a pint every few weeks and sent it to his medical storage facility.
The file contained page after page of medical test results. In the back, I found something I’d not seen before. Her birth certificate. About a third of the way down the page, the words made my heart stop for a moment. Jenny’s full name.
Genevieve Deshayes Monvoisin Toussaint.
I opened my laptop so fast the lid almost detached. The first item in the Google results said it all: La Voisin had been the nom de plume for Catherine Deshayes Monvoisin. Surely, Jenny’s parents used some of La Voisin’s real name as an inside joke or something.
A movement to the right of me caught my eye. Next to the window stood a young girl with straight black hair hanging to the small of her back. Her amber eyes burned a hole in my soul. Jenny Toussaint.
“I said to let me go.”
Those fucking doctors and nurses couldn’t do anything right. I picked up the office phone to call the central nursing station. Before I dialed, Jenny moved towards me so fast she held the receiver before I pressed a single button. She tossed the phone towards the far wall, pulling the connector from the floor jack as it flew. When she turned her attention towards me, I shivered.
“I warned you. You cannot keep La Voisin. Let me go!”
She evaporated the moment Devon opened the door on the far wall. He picked the phone off the floor and placed it on my desk. After he bent over to reconnect the line, he sat in the visitor’s chair facing me.
“Is something wrong, Grace? I’ve never seen you like this.”
Part of me wanted to tell him that a girl in a drug-induced coma appeared in my office and threw my phone across the room. Would it help if I said she had the same name as a famous sorceress? Probably not.
“I’m stressed, nothing more.” Always hide a lie inside a truth, I always said. “I want to give Jenny Toussaint B-32.”
The chemical compound would solve the problem. Our doctors developed the drug to sedate unmanageable patients permanently. We used it once a couple years ago.
“Are you sure? She’s just a child!”
Devon rarely showed hesitancy in doing the nasty tasks our jobs required. This was a first for him.
“Yes, I’m sure. We can’t risk her waking and escaping. Walton Bates needs her blood, and we need his money. Ask Doctor Bailey to meet me at her bed in ten minutes. If you want, I’ll make the call.”
“No, I’ll do it. Ten minutes it is.”
The second Devon closed the office door, I felt a cold breath on my right ear as someone whispered. “My coffin will be yours.”
I jumped out of the chair and looked around. Nothing. My lack of quiet sleep continued to mess with my sanity. After I neutralized Jenny Toussaint, I might take off the rest of the day.
With my phone and her folder in hand, I walked out to the lobby. The security guard stood firmly at the front door. At his desk to my left, Devon hung up the phone.
“Doctor Bailey will meet you there. Jenny is in room 4A.”
“Thanks, Devon. I’ll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Bypassing the double elevators, I entered the stairwell. I took the steps two at a time and reached the fourth floor landing in less than a minute. Out of breath, I left the stairwell and walked past the floor’s nursing center.
A few “good mornings” came my way as I strolled past, but I had no time for pleasantries. Room 4A was the closest room to the nurse station. They likely moved her there for observation. In a few minutes, it didn’t matter where they put her.
True to his word, Doctor Bailey beat me there. On a tray next to him lay a syringe and vial. “I don’t see anything in her charts to warrant B-32. Everything indicates she would recover completely if we let her wake up.”
“It’s not your concern, Doctor.” Two IVs dripped into the girl lying on the bed. A nasogastric tube ran through her nostril into her stomach. She also had an injection port for medications. “Just fill the syringe and give it to me.”
With Jenny in a permanent vegetative state, the company would reap millions of dollars from her blood. She could live for decades.
The doctor withdrew the B-32 and handed the syringe to me.
The nurses installed an injection port on the back of the girl’s right hand for medicine they didn’t want to mix with the lactated ringers, saline, or other IV solutions. While standing beside Jenny’s bed, I moved her hand to get better access to the port. I inserted the needle and pushed the plunger.
Jenny grabbed my wrist and began speaking. The words she said sounded like gibberish. When she finished, the girl stared directly at me. “Your coffin will be your home.”
Yanking my hand away, I jumped back. My ass hit the metal tray, knocking it to the floor—which is where I’d be if Doctor Bailey hadn’t caught me.
“Doctor, did you see that? Did you hear what she said?” The words sounded part French and part Haitian mashed together. I spoke neither well enough to make sense of them.
“Who?”
“Jenny!”
“Sorry, Grace, but I didn’t.”
Had I lost my sanity? As far as I could tell, Jenny appeared the same as she did when I walked into the room: unconscious.
The doctor picked up the tray and replaced its contents. I laid the used syringe on the tray and looked at Jenny. She wouldn’t bother me anymore.
As I prepared to leave, Jenny began having a seizure. She writhed back and forth for a few seconds. I started to ask Doctor Bailey something when everything went black.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back. What the fuck happened? Although I couldn’t see shit, I heard someone talking. Familiar voices.
“Doctor, what was that?”
“I’m not sure, but her vitals have stabilized. As far as I can tell, the injection worked. We won’t know for sure until the pentobarbital wears off.”
That was Doctor Bailey’s voice. “Doctor! Can you hear me?”
When the second man spoke, a chill ran through me.
“Keep a nurse on her. I want to make sure Jenny Toussaint won’t give us any more problems. How long can she last like this?”
The voices were Doctor Bailey’s—and mine, which was impossible. The fucking hallucinations would be the end of me.
“If properly cared for, Grace, she should last decades. She’ll be an incredible income generator for you.”
“Fantastic.”
Nothing made sense. The last I remembered, I gave Jenny the B-32. Did I fall asleep? Was this another nightmare? A voice interrupted my frantic thoughts.
“You fucked with La Voisin, so La Voisin fucked with you. Your coffin is now your home. You will die in there over and over for your own eternity.”
A coffin. It had to be another dream.
“This is no dream, Grace.”
What the fuck had she done to me? “Let me out! Help!”
“No one can help you now. You had your chance.”
“Jenny, I’m sorry! Please, I’ll let you go! Everyone can go! Don’t leave me in here! Take your body back and give me mine! Please!”
Oh, no. The B-32. This body would never wake up, never go anywhere again. La Voisin had switched places with me, leaving me in a prison of my own creation. She had put me in the coffin meant for her.
My claustrophobia kicked in. Ever since I could remember, closed spaces did something to me. The first time I rode an elevator, I screamed the entire time. Not long afterwards, they made me take the stairs wherever we went.
I screamed and reached up. A few inches from my face, my hands hit a soft, solid surface. It extended down the sides, boxing me in. My legs and feet moved only a few inches before hitting the sides. Every part of me wanted to move, to get out of there, but the best I managed to do was flail helplessly against the lid and sides of the casket.
The nightmare.
I screamed and flailed and punched and cursed. My lungs began hurting as the oxygen thinned. Death would soon follow. When I finally breathed what had to be my final breath, I thanked God for taking me. Then the cycle began again.
“Stop! Please, get me out of here!” My heart raced and sweat soaked my clothing. The sound of dirt hitting the lid got softer as the grave filled in. I would die again in minutes, but I wouldn’t stay dead for long.
La Voisin’s coffin would never let me go.