Maya woke with a start in the passenger seat of her own car, neck stiff, mouth dry, the taste of rain and panic still coating her tongue.
Streetlights flickered through the windshield in weak orange pulses. The engine had been off long enough for the interior to cool; condensation fogged every window except the small circle Kai had wiped clear with his sleeve. He sat behind the wheel, motionless, staring straight ahead at nothing.
She straightened slowly, every muscle protesting. Her phone—dead now—lay useless in the cupholder. The clock on the dash glowed 4:19 a.m. They had been parked in this empty lot behind a shuttered po'boy stand for almost three hours.
"You didn't sleep," she said. Not a question.
Kai's gaze shifted to her—slow, careful, like he was afraid sudden movement might shatter something fragile between them.
"I listened," he answered. "To the rain. To the street. To you breathing. I needed to know nothing followed us."
Maya rubbed her arms. The heater had long since shut off; the damp chill from their run still clung to her skin.
"Did anything?"
He shook his head once. "Not yet."
The two words landed heavier than they should have.
She looked out the cleared circle on the windshield. The lot was deserted. A single sodium lamp buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across cracked asphalt. Beyond the fence, the Mississippi moved dark and quiet, carrying whatever secrets the city didn't want to keep.
"We can't go back to the house," she said.
"I know."
"We can't go to Mama Denise. Not until we understand what just happened."
"I know that too."
Maya turned to face him fully. In the dim light his features looked carved from shadow—cheekbones sharper, eyes deeper, the silver at his temples more pronounced. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.
"Tell me the truth," she said. "All of it. No more half-answers. What did you mean when you said you recognized the second voice?"
Kai exhaled through his nose—long, controlled.
"In the chamber," he began, "there were nights the silence became… thick. Like water rising. On those nights I would hear something else. Not words at first. Just pressure. A shape trying to speak. Over years it sharpened. Became one word. Repeated. My name. Always my name. Never angry. Never kind. Just… hungry. I told myself it was loneliness playing tricks. I told myself it was memory bleeding through the walls. I never told Ruth. I didn't want to frighten her. I thought if I ignored it long enough, it would fade."
Maya's throat tightened. "It didn't."
"No." He looked down at his hands—open, empty. "It waited. Like I waited. Patient. Certain."
She reached across the console and covered his right hand with both of hers. His skin felt colder than it should have.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now it's not waiting anymore."
Silence stretched between them—thin, brittle.
Maya broke it first. "We need somewhere safe. Somewhere it can't reach."
Kai nodded slowly. "There's a place. Not far. A room above a jazz club on Frenchmen Street. The owner—old friend from before—still owes me a favor. He won't ask questions."
Maya started the car. The engine coughed once, then caught. Heat began to blow again—lukewarm, hesitant.
They drove in silence through empty streets. Rain had slowed to mist. Streetlights reflected off wet pavement in long, trembling lines. New Orleans at this hour felt abandoned—only the occasional cab, the occasional patrol car, the occasional drunk staggering home.
Frenchmen Street was quieter than usual. Most bars had closed; only a few neon signs still glowed. Kai directed her to a narrow two-story building squeezed between a closed gallery and a po'boy joint. The sign above the door read *Spotted Cat* in faded red letters. A single bulb burned above the side entrance.
Kai knocked—three slow taps, pause, two quick.
The door opened almost immediately.
An older man—late sixties, wiry, gray dreads pulled back—stood there in a faded T-shirt and suspenders. He looked at Kai for a long moment, then at Maya, then back at Kai.
"You're supposed to be dead," he said.
Kai gave a small, tired smile. "I get that a lot."
The man stepped aside. "Upstairs. Second door on the right. Key's under the mat. Don't turn on the big light—only the lamp. I'll bring coffee in twenty."
He closed the door behind them without another word.
The staircase was narrow, steep, smelling of spilled beer and old varnish. At the top, a short hallway. Under the mat of the second door: a single brass key—not glowing, not humming, just ordinary.
Kai unlocked the door.
The room was small—single bed, worn couch, tiny kitchenette, one window overlooking the street. A floor lamp with a yellow shade stood beside the couch. Kai switched it on. Warm, soft light filled the space.
Maya dropped onto the couch. Her legs shook now that the adrenaline had ebbed.
Kai locked the door. Double-checked the window latch. Then he knelt in front of her—slow, careful—took both her hands.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For not telling you everything sooner. For not knowing there was more to the curse than what I saw. For bringing this into your life."
Maya shook her head. "You didn't bring it. It was already here. Waiting for someone to open the wrong door. Or maybe the right one."
He rested his forehead against hers. "I should have protected you better."
"You did. You got us out."
"Not far enough."
She cupped his face, thumbs brushing the silver at his temples.
"We're alive," she said. "We're together. That's far enough for tonight."
He closed his eyes. Leaned into her touch.
They stayed like that until the knock came—soft, careful.
The older man—still nameless—entered with a thermos of coffee and two mugs. He set them on the small table, looked at both of them for a long moment.
"Whatever chased you here," he said quietly, "it won't cross my threshold tonight. I've got salt at every corner and a prayer older than this building. Sleep. I'll sit downstairs. No one gets past me."
He left without waiting for thanks.
Kai poured coffee—black, strong, chicory-laced. The smell alone steadied Maya's breathing.
They drank in silence.
Then Kai set his mug down.
"We need a plan," he said. "Tomorrow we go back—but not inside. We watch from across the street. See what moves. See if it's still there."
"And if it is?"
"We find someone who knows more about root work than I do. Someone who remembers the old ways without fear."
Maya nodded slowly. "Mama Denise might know people. Or Miss Clara. She always said Ruth kept secrets even she didn't understand."
Kai reached for her hand again. "We do this together. No more running alone."
"No more running at all," Maya corrected. "We face it. Whatever it is."
He lifted her hand to his lips. Kissed her knuckles—soft, lingering.
"I love you," he said. "More than I knew I could."
Maya leaned forward until their foreheads touched.
"I love you too. Enough to walk back into that house tomorrow. Enough to open whatever door we have to open."
They kissed—slow, deep, tasting of coffee and fear and unshakable certainty.
Then they lay down on the narrow couch—bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces worn smooth by time. Kai pulled a thin blanket over them. Maya curled against his chest, listening to the heartbeat she had once only heard in darkness.
Outside, rain began again—soft, steady, washing the city clean.
Inside, they slept—fitful, but together.
And somewhere across town, in the old shotgun house on St. Bernard Avenue, the red glow had faded.
But the second hum had not.
It waited.
Patient.
Certain.
Singing the same lullaby Ruth once sang to Maya as a child.
And beneath the floorboards—behind the second door—something listened.
Not angry anymore.
Not pleading.
Just… ready.
(to be continued…)