Cold Snap

Please refer to final MS for format of text. See below: 1 Lesieur’s Novelties and Trinkets October 30, 2010 The building seemed to be as old as New Orleans itself. Once red bricks, they now appear timeworn, chalky, and brittle—to the point of crumbling. A small weathered sign hangs over a red splintered door that reads Lesieur’s Novelties and Trinkets. On either side of the door, dirt and grime encrusts tall windows, obscuring visibility. The narrow back alley street leading to the shop’s front door is ageless and dark. Dank cobblestone glistens under the moonlight as steam rises from a cold iron sewer grate, giving the alley a spooky life of its own. A couple turns down the alley, heading toward a more populated street. They cuddle in the anticipation of the free-flowing wine, hors d’oeuvres, and the laughter of close friends. The young woman clings to her boyfriend’s arm, her head nestled along his chest as they make their way past the desolate antique shop that time had forgotten. The design of the shop meant to draw attention to the knickknacks in glass cases and on wooden shelves. The dusty unmentionables have long since lost their luster. Once considered noteworthy of the public’s attention, the novelty shop is now in shambles. Most of its keepsakes appear tarnished and ill kept. They are a home to a variety of common household spiders spinning their webs from one object to the next. On the other side of a dingy glass counter past an antique register, a lightbulb flickers in a hallway, illuminating a stairwell. There are at least thirty concrete steps descending twenty-five feet that end at a rusty iron door barred from the inside. In the room, an overhead light sways back and forth for unknown reasons. It does little to illuminate the large unfinished, unfurnished basement. It casts shadows over uneven rock walls, a clutter of discarded tools, and an array of questionable instruments. It is here in the center of this dimly lit room where the wide-eyed man sits in terror. Aculeo had awoken with the taste of vomit stinging his throat. A horrible stench of decay assaults his senses. He was not alone. Eyes were upon him. Someone or something else is in the room with Aculeo. His captor, his tormentor, his judge, his jury, and his executioner—whoever it may be does not make its presence known. Choosing to remain just within the shadows, Aculeo’s captor watches his prey with hungry fixated eyes. Lesieur had become aroused to the idea of torture—every particular detail of it, in fact. It was the handkerchief he had stuffed into the man’s mouth and then covered with a strip of duct tape. It is the anxious perspiration beading off his victim’s forehead and the blatant horrified expression. It amused Lesieur, and he watches with titillating anticipation. The last thing Aculeo remembered from earlier in the evening was he was enjoying his dinner. He never missed a seven o’clock reservation with his fiancé at Marius Bistro on Frenchman Street. It is vague that he remembers this due to the unknown substance still coursing through his veins. His thoughts and visions are blurry. Frenchman Street is a famous street in New Orleans, dissecting the center of the city’s tourist activity. The historically known Frenchman Street hosts street festivals all year long, promoting commerce for tourists. At night, under the soft glow of street lamps, the street comes alive. Thousands of twinkling lights and some of the best brassy music heard east of the Mississippi River sets the mood. The hustle and bustle of enraptured activity keeps the public unwary of the dark things that often lurk in New Orleans. Aculeo remembered arguing with a sottish American who had wandered up next to their table. The American stumbled into Aculeo, spilling Chablis onto his corduroy blazer. After a heated exchange of words, the American assaulted Aculeo—a swift slap across the back of the head. The American then darted off down the street in a drunken stupor spouting off all sorts of insane banter. He soon disappeared into a conjoining alley. Never known as an even-tempered man, Aculeo gave chase. Within moments after turning down the alley, everything turned black. There were lucid moments when Aculeo had come to and seen himself loaded into the back of a white van. At one point, Aculeo recalled clasped hands around his chest, hefting him down steep cement stairs. He has only been conscious for five minutes at most—most of them hazy. Fear and desperation already begins to manifest. As he struggles against his constraints, his heart pounds in his chest. The smell in the room is horrid . . . Oh god, that stench of freshly spilled blood and initial decomposition.