AS SOON AS I SEE THE mansion, I recognize it. I’d seen it on one of my first nights in town, stumbling away from the diner with only the pale street lamps to guide me.

“Isn’t it beautiful,” Sophie breathes, tugging at my hand to hurry me along. We’ve parked our cars side-by-side a few blocks away. She said they looked good together. I didn’t say what I was thinking in response- ‘we look good together, too’. It sounded corny in my head and I knew it would sound even worse if spoken aloud. I’m rusty at this dating thing.

“It’s nice.” I respond, craning my head to see up the three-story structure. “It’s a bit plain by today’s standards.”

“Maybe, but for its time, it was considered crème de la crème.” She looks away from the building, and I look down at her simultaneously. We smile. Things with her feel easy. I like that.

A hell of a lot better than warring with some nonexistent ghost in my head.

“I think it was a mistake for them to paint it over in this gray. The black shutters are nice, but it just seems so dark. It used to be a lighter color with the railings painted a nice green.” She points at the cast iron banister running around the second floor balcony.

“I’m surprised they changed the color of it. Surprised the historical society would allow it, I mean.” We’re walking towards a young man dressed in period garb. He’s holding a black lantern, a little candle illuminating the lower half of his face.

“Oh, well that was before my time, but I find it curious, too. I guess they weren’t too concerned over a purported murderer’s mansion.”

“A murderer?” I quirk an eyebrow, looking away from Sophie and back to the building.

“Wait until the tour. It’s going to be fab. The one I went on before wasn’t led by a psychic. Who knows what crazy vibes he’s going to get off the place. I’m so nervous it feels like my skin is tingling.” She smiles widely at me, her eyes twinkling and full of life, and it makes me get excited and nervous right along with her.

We’re next to the young man now, and he’s holding out his hand. I think it’s strange that he’s not saying anything, though maybe it’s part of the atmosphere for the tour, to build suspense. Sophie doesn’t miss a beat though, handing him two slips of white paper with black writing.

As we enter the house, she leans to me and whispers conspiratorially, “Isn’t this great?” She raises a hand and motions around the foyer. The architecture is really something. “I mean, aren’t you glad I stalked you and just happened to have two tickets to a creepy tour? It’s how to snag a man New Orleans style.” She’s clearly teasing, though there’s a heartbeat in which I consider if she actually has been stalking me. I swipe away the thought almost instantly though.

“I don’t know, Sophie, I’m beginning to think I might need a restraining order.” It feels natural to tease her back, and that fact surprises me.

“Well, wait and see how our second date goes before you decide. My mother basically stalked my dad all through high school, and they’ve been happily married for twenty-five years.” She pokes me in the side gently.

I go to say something else, but our banter’s interrupted by a portly man with a wiry beard booming to life in the room opposite where we stand. He’s wearing a purple suit. Not subdued eggplant or lavender, but electric ‘Prince cut a new record’ purple.

“I welcome you, brave souls, to the LaLaurie Mansion.” He turns in a circle, his fingers quickly pressing against the wall behind him. “Death lives within these walls. Spirits circle these blood-soaked halls. Leave now, if you are weak of heart. Stay, and I cannot promise safety on this journey.”

Sophie leans into me and whispers, low enough that only I can hear. “Not exactly what I was expecting.” There’s a dark undertone to her words that seems out of place, as she’s just been smiling and teasing me.

“I would have thought this was exactly your sort of thing.” My face is so close to her hair that I can smell her shampoo. Vanilla and Sandalwood. I breathe it in, maybe a little too loudly, because she turns to me and our lips are suddenly so close that it would only take a second’s thought to close the gap. I want to kiss her.

But it feels too soon. Too rushed. That seems stupid, coming from a guy that jumped into bed with a ghost after only a few days. I pull away, but not so far that it will hurt her feelings. At least I hope it doesn’t. Her face crinkles in confusion, but only for a second. She sees something in my face maybe, that makes her accept that I’m not ready to kiss her. Yet, her eyes go momentarily shadowed after I think she’s accepted that I’m not ready. It is like something is passing behind her gaze, something that is ominous and telling. Something inhuman.

I shake my head, hard. This isn’t the time or the place for my illusions.

The ‘psychic’ is still talking, his voice carrying over the heads of the twenty or so people that surround us. I’m usually not good in close quarters with crowds, but with Sophie by my side I’m calm. That’s what I need in my life. Maybe the doc was right. Maybe it’s not the medicine at all. Maybe I’m just lonely.

We follow the crowd, staying at the rear, as the psychic leads us through the mansion. With each room we pass into, his voice gets more dramatic. I can feel the fear in the folks paying attention to his raving lunacies. It’s a feeling I’m familiar with. It reminds me of being on the frontline, the terror of the men around me. They had something this gawping crowd does not have though—the solid determination to do one’s duty no matter the outcome.

This crowd was just here for the cheap thrills.

The men that I fought with were there for everything except thrill.

When we are in the first room of the second floor, a booming crack cuts through the air around me, causing the crowd to collectively gasp and half-fall to the ground.

But I’m thinking of the war.

I’m thinking of the men I left behind.

Then Jace is there, a weight in my arms. I am dragging his body across the ground, trying to get him to a medic. I know it’s too late, but still I move, foot after foot. He is my friend. I won’t leave him.

“Spencer?” A worried voice breaks into the memory. “Spencer, are you okay? What can I do?”

I know that voice. It belongs to Sophie.

Sophie. I picture her face in my mind, grounding myself.

Coming back to reality after an episode is always hard. My forehead is damp with sweat. I’m lying on the ground, looking up at an antique chandelier. Sophie is not the only worried face hanging over my body. Not all of them look worried of course. The psychic looks more annoyed than anything. I’ve ruined his show.

“I’m fine. Just let me get up.” Everyone shuffles away as I roll to my side. Before trying to stand, I move my leg and make sure the prosthetic is still positioned properly and secure. I’m close enough to a wingback chair to use it as a support. Sophie doesn’t try to help me. I’m glad for that. I worry this will ruin me in her eyes. I don’t want her to reject me.

When I’m on my feet, the psychic makes a ‘show’s over, folks’ announcement and he desperately tries to reengage the crowd. The fear and immediacy has waned though. After I’m stood up, I find Sophie’s face reluctantly. I’m relieved to see her smiling softly, no judgement in her eyes. No pity.

“I’m feeling like ice cream. You?” She leans over and picks up my car keys; they must have been tossed from my pocket when I fell.

“That sounds perfect. Think he’ll miss us though?” I cock a thumb at the psychic. Sophie has to suppress a giggle. The man is desperately trying to herd everyone upstairs to the attic and... his beard has come unglued.

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll miss us at all. Come on, there’s only one place to get ice cream at this time of night. Molly Moo’s.”

“Cute name.”

“Soft serve a mile high, my friend. A mile high. And every flavor you can imagine.” Sophie moves to stand next to me, her hip brushing mine. She threads her arm through mine and I stick my hand in my pocket to give her the perfect crook to cling to. “Sorry this didn’t turn out great.”

“Are you kidding? Best night I’ve had in a while.”

Sophie smiles so wide that two little dimples sprout along her chin. I’m falling, hard and fast. I’ve got to slow it down though. This woman doesn’t even know the half of my demons. I don’t want to love someone who’s going to run.

We’re walking back down the stairs from the first level. Sophie’s still holding my arm, and I’m holding onto the railing. It steadies me as I tackle each rise; my prosthetic’s joint swinging smoothly. I hadn’t really taken in the grandeur of the house as we’d first moved through it. I do now though, a tentative smile across my face as Sophie hums to herself.

More than halfway down, I turn my head to smile at the woman who has already made me feel lighter than I have in ages, in such a short time that it seems impossible. That’s when I see it.

A large portrait in an ebony frame.

It is of a woman with auburn hair, the color so rich that I can see the fire in the paint. A woman who looks like the ghost I’ve been creating in my mind to fill the void. My frantic eyes search the wall above, beneath, and around the frame. Until they find a small brass plaque and a name.

Marie-Borja/Borgia Delphine 

Marie?

No. How could it be? The names aren’t exact, but... I squint up at the portrait.

It is the same woman.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped in my tracks until Sophie’s voice brings me back to the land of the living.

“Spencer, everything okay?” She looks where I am looking, and she hesitates for a moment, which makes me search her face. Once again, there is a flash of something I don’t understand in her expression, like a night when the moon is only a sliver in the sky, but it is gone so quickly that I could have imagined it. Besides, I’m imagining so much lately. Sophie smiles and leans her head against my shoulder. “She was really striking, wasn’t she? They say her mother abused her almost as much as she did the slaves, but no one really knows. Have you seen her picture before? It’s in nearly all the tourism pamphlets.”

“It is?” I choke out the words. That’s where I’ve seen her then. It has to be. I plucked her out of the fabric of my imagination. I only saw her face, in passing perhaps- like a pamphlet set on a desk somewhere- and then I’d made her real. Because I’m crazy. But only a touch crazy.

Not crazy enough to create her out of thin air. That’s a relief.

“Yes. Think of her as the tragic beauty queen of her day. New Orleans likes to parade her mother around as their most famous serial killer and her daughter as their most tragic heroine.”

“Must be where I’ve seen her face before.” My words sound forced, but I will myself to believe it. I’ve seen Marie-Borja Delphine’s face on a tri-folded piece of glossy paper. And I’ve taken that image and made her the woman of my dreams. Total sense. Only that touch of crazy, not the full asylum.

My fingers itch, wanting to reach for the pill bottle in my jeep. Another dose to drown this out. That’s all I need. I do reach now, wanting to get back to reality, no matter what it takes. Sophie stops me, with soft fingers against my forearm. “You don’t need more of those, Spencer. What you need is...” her voice trails off, full of heat and softness and promise. “You need something real in your life.”

I drop my hand, resting it against my knee. Sophie does not move hers. Her touch is nearly as good as another pill, to drown out the madness in my mind.