After years of renouncing his heritage and connection to voodoo, Sam Ethol, fifthteen-year-old is haunted by a mysterious voodoo practitioner that killed his father and multiple citizens of New Orleans.
Chapter 1 Mardi Gras
"Voodoo isn't real!"
Sam Ethol, a 16-year-old high school student said to his best friend, Stevie Lacroix as the two sat outside the Chow Pow, a popular dinner in New Orleans, LA.
"Come on Sammy. Are you going to sit here and tell me you don't believe in magic?" Stevie chuckled as he drank his glass of sweet tea.
"That's what, I'm telling you, Stevie," Sam replied to him.
As the two teenagers discussed their beliefs in the supernatural world, a large overweight man with dark skin and a bald head came toward them with a busboy tub and dropped it on the table between them.
"Alright, break times over." He said uninterested.
"Come on house, we still have ten minutes left," Sam complained.
"Yeah, I know. But we got a huge rush cause of Mardi Gras. We ain't got time to diddle dally. Now get going." House said.
"Oh well," Stevie complained also. "Another day, another quarter."
"Watch it, Croix. Just because your daddy is in the office doesn't mean you can bad mouth how I pay my help." House got annoyed.
"Alright House." Both boys gave up.
"Come on Stevie," Sam said as he pulled out a white apron behind the bus tub before grabbing at the second one to toss to Stevie. "Let's go get this quarter."
Vibrant sounds of triumphant and harmonicas filled the air as Sam and Stevie fastened their aprons and greeted multiple customers who were intoxicated by the vexatious sound of New Orleans.
Stevie grabbed a second bus tub to clear the tables when an unsettling figure spotted him from afar.
"Crap!" Stevie cursed as he maneuvered away from the overweight, red-haired man in a white business suit. The young man walked through the crowd until he bumped into Sam.
"Easy bro." Sam eyed him.
"Sorry man. I just saw you know who in the crowd." Stevie explained to him.
"Again?" Sam said as he looked around to find the intimidating man.
"Hey, busboys!" A blond-haired middle-aged woman called from the dining hall window, interrupting their conversation. "The cooks need the trash taken out." The lady said before she stormed off.
"Bro, can you get this one for me? I don't want to bump into that creep." Stevie asked.
"I got it, Shirley," Sam assured him and called after the lady.
Sam fist-bumped Stevie before putting away his bus tubs and walking into the kitchen.
The dreadlocked teenager moved past the cooks, frantically scurrying around the kitchen to finish the large quantity of food.
"Appreciate the hassle, Sammy," Shirley said.
"What I do best, Boss lady." Sam smiled at her.
Sam tied the large bag of trash before lifting it and haunting the heavy sack outside. The young busboy carried the garbage away to the dumpster several feet from the restaurant when a ceric chilled breeze flowed down his spine.
"Who's there?"
Sam turned around, gazing around his surroundings only to find nothing but the empty valley way behind him.
"Get it together Ethol." Sam thought to himself but was stopped abruptly.
"Sammy!" A chilling voice uttered his name but when the young man looks over his shoulder, he found nothing.
"It's getting too crazy out here. I should..."
Before he could finish his sentence, a divesting twister composed of green spirits was yelling in agony as Sam was trapped inside it.
The dreadlocked teenager fell to the floor. His mouth wide opened yet not a single word escaped it as his chest beat repetitively at an uncased pace.
Sam shut his eyes, tilling his head from the bizarre phenomenon until the painful screams ceased.
As he cautiously opened his eyes, he saw that the vortex was gone.
"Not again". He sighed.
Just as Sam stood up from the abnormal menace, a woman's scream penetrated the air, making Sam run inside only to find the kitchen covered with blood and the corpses of the chiefs dropped over the kitchen.
Across from Sam, the door leading to the main floor of the restaurant was broken open, occupied by the mass volume of the local socialites reduced to a lifeless husk.
"Stevie..., House... Shirley..." Sam yelled for any possible survivors, but he heard nothing.
The dread-locked teenager walked inside with his heart beating like a drum and his legs wobbled with every corpse he passed.
He looked up to the wall across from the kitchen entrance and found an unsettling message written boldly in blood.
"Take the throne, Voodoo Child."
Terror covered the young man's face as he back stepped further and further from the horrific situation in front of him.
"Why is this happening to me?" Sam began to wail but stopped when he heard a voice.
"Sam," Stevie called out in a battered state, his body lying on his side and struggling to get up.
"Stevie?" Sam ran to his best friend's side to help him to his feet.
"You alright man?" Sam asked him.
"Kinda, sort of," Stevie said out of breath.
"What the hell happened here?" Sam asked, wanting to know what happened exactly.
"No clue. One minute, I was clearing tables then suddenly, this guy in a red trench coat and black fedora walked in and shot out a swarm of bees everywhere." Stevie explained to him.
"Bees?"
"Yeah. It was crazy as hell, man."
The two boys lifted Shirley, making their way out of the kitchen. When they entered the dining hall, Sam could not help but noticed the bloody message on the wall.
"Sam, what are you looking at?" Shirley said, noticing that Sam's hand was still above.
"Can't you guys see that?" Sam asked, not understanding what was happening anymore. Sam lifted his arm and pointed to the well.
"See what?" Stevie asked.
"Yeah, I don't see anything either," Shirley added.
"That text in blood. "Sam explained. "It's painted on the wall."
"I told ya that this boy needs glasses." House projected as he got up before referring to Shirley. "Now stop fooling around and get the poor lady a seat."
As Sam helped his employer sit down, he felt a pinched pain on his left palm. "Ouch, that..."
He was cut off when he opened his hand only to find a glowing green silhouette of a voodoo mark in his palm before he completed his sentence.
"...Hurts".
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