The Wish Collector

by Mia Sheridan

“If others don’t fear you a little, son, you’re not doing it right.” Of course, his dad applied that same theory to his parenting as well. If anyone ruled his home with an iron fist, it was Edward Chamberlain.

Two weeks later, as Jonah lay in a pool of spreading blood, the charred smell of his mutilated flesh heavy and rancid in his nostrils, his brother’s words would come back to him, flowing lazily through his mind like the misty wisps of a forgotten dream. You’re choosing a path. Let’s talk later. But there would be no talking to his brother later. His brother was dead. The screaming dimmed enough for Jonah to register the high-pitched expulsion of air rasping from his smoke-drenched lungs. He was whistling again. Only this time, there was no tune.

“Angelina?” “Mm-hmm. You’ve been in New Orleans for a couple of months now. You haven’t heard of the weeping wall?” The weeping wall. A strange tremble went down Clara’s spine. “No. Where is it?” “Why, it’s at Windisle Plantation.” Windisle Plantation.

“It’s a sugar plantation that was built more than two hundred years ago.”

“Oh, some call it sacred. And some call it cursed. But everyone does agree that it’s haunted.”

“You see, darlin’, a young woman named Angelina Loreaux, broken-hearted by her lover’s betrayal, took her own life in the rose garden, and that is where her restless spirit lingers still, along with the ghost of the man who rejected her, denied eternal peace by the tragic results of his worldly actions.”

“Well, yes. Robert Chamberlain was his name. But she was also the daughter of Mama Loreaux, a kitchen slave who bore his illegitimate daughter. Mama Loreaux was a striking woman with dark, perceptive eyes, they say, and known among her fellow slaves to practice a West African form of voodoo passed down by her mother and her grandmother. She used herbs and charms to provide relief from every ailment under the sun. Their daughter, Angelina Loreaux, was a beautiful, spirited child, beloved by her mother and her father. It’s said that Robert Chamberlain was enchanted by his little girl and would rock her on his knee on the front porch of the plantation house . . . much to the chagrin of his wife and legitimate children, who tolerated Angelina though not much more.”

“Anyway, the way the story goes, when Angelina was seventeen, she met John Whitfield, a young southern soldier from an extremely wealthy family, who was at the plantation. They spent only a short time together but John became enchanted by the beautiful Angelina.” Mrs. Guillot frowned. “It’s said they both fell in love, but I find it hard to believe due to what occurred later.” “He betrayed her,” Clara whispered. “And she took her own life.” “Yes.” Mrs. Guillot nodded. “But before that, they became lovers in secret.”

“Well, oh I guess it’d be in 1860 or ’61, John was called to serve in the Civil War. He left Angelina, making promises to return to her. Angelina waited, loving him unendingly, her pure and tender heart filled with hope for the future they'd somehow create together. She must have been a dreamer, that one.” Mrs. Guillot looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps it seemed to her that she'd finally found a place to belong in a world where she felt part of nothing at all.” Mrs. Guillot smiled. “But that’s just my own supposing.” “It makes sense,” Clara murmured. Mrs. Guillot frowned. “However, John's heart was not as true, and he sent a note through his family telling Angelina he no longer loved her, and she should forget him as he'd already begun to forget her.”

“Angelina was shattered and she fled to the rose garden. It was there, the place where she'd first met her beloved, that she took one of her father's razors to her wrists.”

“From what I remember, it’s believed that John and Angelina's spirits wander the rose garden, even still, unable to find rest, unable to find peace, always seeking the thing that will free them of the burden of their earthly sins. The locals believe that Angelina, somehow tangled up in the curse in a way no one truly knows, will grant a wish to those who slip one through the cracks in the wall surrounding Windisle.”

“It’s said that the wall weeps tears for the heartbreak and tragedy that came to pass behind it, for the spirits still trapped within. Now I don’t know about that as the few times I’ve been there, I never witnessed it, but it’s said that it will only stop weeping when John and Angelina's spirits are set free.”

inhaling deeply of the unmistakable smell of old books—aged paper and souls cast in ink.

“Oh yes. It was first said at a party held at Windisle Manor in 1934. Now, that was back when the Chamberlain family still occupied it and threw lavish soirees. I was only fourteen but my sister got me a job working for the catering company at that gathering. Prentiss Chamberlain and his wife, Dixie, asked an old, blind voodoo priestess to attend.” She paused. “From what I knew, the Chamberlain family never did put much stock in the belief that ghosts roamed their property—though there were always rumors that guests to the house reported seeing ghostly apparitions, especially near the rose garden. But in any case, Prentiss and Dixie Chamberlain were happy enough to use the legend as entertainment, and for that reason, the priestess was invited.”

By a drop of Angelina’s blood being brought to the light.

Windisle Manor, a Greek Revival-style home, was built in the early eighteen hundreds on a one-thousand-acre sugar plantation owned by the Chamberlain family. Before the Civil War, Windisle Plantation owned over a hundred slaves, most of whom toiled in the sugarcane fields, but some of whom worked in the manor.

Clara wrapped her arms around her waist as she approached what she knew must be the weeping wall. It was an eight-foot-high stone structure ending in dense woods and high reedy grass near the edge of the Mississippi River on one side and the beginning of what had once been the sugar crops on the other, now a tangle of overgrowth. The middle of the wall formed an open arch, barricaded by an iron gate. Wild roses spiraled through the bars, creating a thick tangle of green leaves, heavily thorned vines, and vibrant crimson flowers. There was something both lush and savage about it, and that strange chill—part fear, part excitement—skittered down her spine.

Her father had wiped her tears and told her she couldn't always cry for the world or she’d be crying all the time.

"But, Daddy," she’d said, "if I don't let my tears out, won't I drown inside?"

By a drop of her blood being brought to the light.

"I guess you're right." She paused. "So it's you . . . you read all the wishes." "I don't read them all. I just collect them." "You collect them," she repeated slowly. "So I guess you're the wish collector, then?" He paused. "The wish collector. I guess I am."

“I think you already drank some of that stardust, Angelina Loreaux.”

No, it had been her wish. Help me help you, Angelina.

My mama always did say that the best way to welcome folk to your home was to show that you cared about decorating their first impression.”

To have a man’s whole expression change when he spoke your name . . . it was something she could only dream of.

And though he hadn’t shared very many personal things with her by choice, she knew those were small pieces of him that he'd unwittingly given, and she grasped them and held them as precious gifts, the same way she held each minor comment Mrs. Guillot made about her deceased husband in the midst of a story. Those were the tiny treasures all people doled out, but only to those they trusted, and Clara recognized them as such.

the colors in the sky bleeding together and melting into darkness. She’d felt consumed. Completely engulfed by something strong and sweet.

“I believe everyone deserves grace, Clara. What you will have to ask yourself is if you should offer that grace from near or from afar. Offering grace does not mean offering your heart. That, my darlin’, must be protected at all cost.”

His heart beat hollowly in his chest, the reminder that he was still here, living, breathing, and the further reminder that life held no true justice. Or maybe it did sometimes. He brought his hand to the half of his face that was ruined and ran his fingers over the ridged and melted skin covering the planes of his bones, tipping his head back as he gazed up at the stone structure that kept him separated from the world. Yes, maybe it did.

Apparently, Jonah Chamberlain was bound and determined to carry every ounce of blame.

“Love makes a place for itself even if there isn’t one, Mama,” she said quietly. “Love carves into the hardest of places.”

he almost turned and darted back to the plantation, as a child races up the stairs at night, sure there is a demon at his heels.

“Be wary of the man with two faces. He’ll hurt you if you let him.”

She’d recognize that deep tenor with the lilting accent anywhere, the voice made for storytelling, for weaving spells, for convincing and cajoling. For seducing and luring and for making dreamy-eyed girls do things they hadn’t intended on. Was that what he’d been doing to her right from the beginning? And if so, she wondered, why do I love it so much?

Their gazes locked for a single heartbeat, and even though his was mostly hidden, something still flowed between them that Clara wasn’t sure what to name.

Be wary of the man with two faces. He’ll hurt you if you let him.

“Prophecy?” “Yes. Do you believe our futures are already determined?”

“Love can’t just disappear when this life is through, can it, Jonah? Even if our bodies turn to dust, the love we feel must go somewhere.”

Fuck, his body was still hard, still pulsing with the memory of her body pressed to his, her scent enveloping him, the way she’d gazed at him with those beautiful brown eyes. Brown. Her eyes are golden brown. Like rich, sweet caramel. And they had seemed to see him despite his covered face. He closed his eyes, willing his heart rate to slow, willing his body to relax.

Once upon a time, he had been a man used to the spotlight and now he was a man who danced between moonbeams.

She felt it deep inside, not just as a proud mother, but as a woman who had made too many bad choices when it came to men and finally learned how to spot a good one because he had been placed right into her arms.

“Curses do not trap those they’re not intended for.”

“If there was a curse put on John, Angelina isn’t locked in it. If Angelina lingers, she lingers for him. For the soldier man.”

“He looks like a man who’s been terribly hurt by the world and believes there is nothing left to love about him anymore.”

“Because I want to be near you,” he said without considering his words. I crave you. I want to protect you.

“And anyhow,” her mother continued, “curses are only fueled with a whole soul a fire behind ’em. They do not work just because you wishin’ they would.”

“And for every ounce a hate that fuels a curse, there gotta be a equal amount a love.”

“If he really love you, he would not put your life in danger.”

Always seeking this woman.

All I Ask of You