Halloween Noir - 4. Coming Home

Beside Solomon, Jacques began to stir again. After orienting himself, he turned to Solomon, his mind reeling with questions. But before he could speak, Solomon raised a hand to silence him, his expression grave.

“Do not dwell on what you have witnessed,” Solomon said, his voice low and solemn. “There are forces at work here that you cannot begin to comprehend… yet. Trust in your feelings; all will become clear soon.”

Leaving their cover, they moved over to the unconscious form of Alex’s body to check on him. In the dim moonlight, they could see that it was freakishly bloated and covered in dirt and grime, the strange symbols still glowing dimly on his skin. Jacques had a hard time identifying it, him, as Alex.

Again, Solomon turned to Jacques. “Despite what he might look like to you now, he’s fine. Please, pick him up and follow me; it’s not too far.”

“Where are we taking him?” Jacques asked, as he struggled to lift the body.

Solomon smiled. “To safety.”

And with that cryptic assurance, Jacques was left standing alone in the darkness, the heavy and bloated form of Alex now in his arms. His mind swirled with confusion and uncertainty. With a sigh, he followed Solomon.

It wasn’t easy to carry the unconscious Alex, who was much heavier than he should have been. Jacques almost lost his grip several times and cursed that he only had one hand and a useless stump. The caretaker’s voice broke through the haze of Jacques’ exhaustion, urging him to carry the still form of Alex to the car, waiting just outside the cemetery walls. Weariness weighed heavily on Jacques’ limbs, but he nodded in silent acknowledgment, his legs moving almost mechanically.

Solomon, tall and composed, walked ahead with the unhurried pace of someone who owned the surrounding shadows. There was no trace of urgency in his step, and that unsettled Jacques most of all. Who the hell is this guy, and why does he seem so calm?

Jacques emerged from the cemetery gates, his lone hand gripping the limp form of Alex, cradling him awkwardly against his side. His chest heaved with effort, the weight and shape of Alex’s unconscious body unfamiliar to handle. The iron gates creaked shut behind him as he followed Solomon toward a sleek, dark car parked just outside the walls. The weight of the night pressed down on him, heavy as the humid air, but he kept moving.

Jacques reached the car, beads of sweat running down his neck. Alex remained out cold, his head lolling like a rag doll’s. Jacques shifted him, grunting as he opened the rear door with his elbow, then awkwardly maneuvered Alex’s body into the back seat. He felt a pang of guilt as Alex slumped against the cracked leather—was he even breathing?

He leaned in, placing his ear near Alex’s mouth, relief flooding him when he felt the faint warmth of breath against his skin. Also, his pulse beat fast but steady.

With a final glance around, Jacques climbed in beside Alex. The tension in his shoulders became nearly unbearable. His right hand—the only one he had—ached from the strain of hauling Alex’s weight. He sat stiffly, trying to calm his mind. Just follow Solomon’s lead, he reminded himself. For now. Noir Foundation was to be trusted.

Solomon slipped into the driver’s seat with smooth precision, as if even the simple act of getting into a car was beneath him. The engine purred to life. The streetlights cast long, crooked shadows reaching into the car’s interior, flickering as they passed.

Solomon’s voice cut through the silence, a calm, almost gentle command. “Text your friends,” he said, not looking back. “Let them know you’re safe. We don’t want anyone worrying unnecessarily.”

Jacques blinked, caught off guard. His first instinct was to argue—how the hell was any of this safe?—but he swallowed his words. His phone buzzed in his pocket as a reminder of his own friends, who were probably wondering where he was by now. His fingers fumbled with his phone, the screen lighting up the car’s interior with a cold blue glow. His hand shook as he typed, the letters blurring together in his rush.

A vague message: “Bumped into zombie guy again. Crashing at his. All good ;)”

He hit send, his thumb hovering for a moment as doubt gnawed at him. His gut told him that nothing about this was “All good”, but what choice did he have? He added his live location and slid the phone back into his pocket.

***

As the car moved steadily through the French Quarter, the streets lay quiet except for a few late-night revelers, their drunken laughter muffled by the thick fog. Jacques stared out the window, watching the passing buildings—cracked facades and ornate ironwork, the ghost of an older, darker New Orleans. He could almost feel the eyes of that strange guy on him again, the weird one in the historic dress.

The tension in his chest refused to ease. Where did those thugs back in the cemetery came from? Why had Solomon brought him here? What the hell was happening?

His thoughts got interrupted when Solomon slowed the car, his eyes scanning the street ahead. Jacques leaned forward, trying to see what had caught his attention. The festive lights of the Quarter had long started to fade, replaced by the shadows of quieter, older streets. And in those shadows, figures lingered.

They were subtle at first—too still to be ordinary people. A man with a wide-brimmed hat stood leaning against a lamppost, his face obscured. A woman in a long black coat hovered at the edge of an alley, her eyes flicking toward the car as it passed. Others seemed to drift between doorways, half-hidden in the fog. Not drunks, not tourists. Something else.

Jacques’s heart began to pound. He turned toward Solomon, wanting to say something, but the older man’s face remained impassive. Whatever he saw, it didn’t seem to alarm him.

Just as they approached the entrance to Maison Noir, Solomon slowed to a stop. His knuckles barely grazed the steering wheel, his demeanor still infuriatingly calm. He glanced at Jacques in the rearview mirror. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Jacques’s stomach tightened. He opened his mouth to ask why—what now?—but the question died in his throat as Solomon stepped out of the car with the quiet grace of someone far too accustomed to the night.

Jacques watched through the window as Solomon walked toward the nearest streetlamp, the soft yellow glow illuminating his silvering hair and the sharp cut of his tailored coat. He seemed utterly unfazed by the shadows moving around them.

Solomon raised his hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, his voice cutting through the thick silence with an almost theatrical clarity. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?”

Jacques felt his skin prickle. There was something so unnerving about Solomon’s tone. Polite, even friendly, but beneath it… there was something else. Something darker.

The shadows stirred. Reluctantly, the figures began to emerge from their hiding places. The man with the hat straightened, his face still hidden. The woman in black stepped forward, her eyes catching the streetlight, hollow and sharp. One by one, they moved toward Solomon with a kind of cautious obedience, stopping at the fringes of the light from the streetlamp.

Jacques’s pulse raced. Who are these people?

Solomon turned slowly, surveying the gathered crowd with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. When he spoke again, his voice was low, but it carried—a tone that brooked no argument, no defiance.

“I regret to inform you that our beloved yearly meetings on this day have come to an end. The wait, the uncertainty—it is over.”

Jacques stared at the back of Solomon’s head, trying to make sense of the words. Wait? Uncertainty? What is he talking about?

Solomon’s eyes swept across the gathered figures, noting their shifting stances, the exchanged glances between them. “Tell your mistresses and masters that, as it was foretold, both of my guests are finally here and under the protection of Maison Noir.”

Jacques’s heart hammered in his chest. Protection? From what?

The people stirred, staring into the car. A few of them nodded slightly, others already pulled out phones, the screens dimly illuminating their faces. Tension filled the air. Jacques could sense it, even through the car window. These people—or whatever they were—were not like anyone he’d ever encountered.

Solomon’s lips curved into that same faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Good bye and good night.”

Without another word, Solomon turned on his heel and walked calmly back to the car, leaving the shadowed figures to disperse into the fog. Whatever message Solomon truly had delivered, it was being passed on swiftly.

Jacques’s skin crawled as he watched them retreat. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or terrified. His throat was dry, and his mind raced with questions.

Solomon slipped back into the driver’s seat with the same quiet grace, shutting the door softly. His expression remained unchanged, as though nothing unusual had just occurred.

The car started again with a low hum, and they pulled the last few meters into the courtyard of Maison Noir. The ancient building loomed like a sentinel in the night, its dark windows watching them, its wings embracing them.

A chill ran through Jacques. He didn’t trust Solomon, not really. He didn’t trust Noir Foundation, he didn’t trust any of this. But for now, he had no choice. All he could do was stay close to Alex, follow Solomon’s lead, and pray that whatever was coming, they would survive it.

Slowing the car to a stop and switching off the motor, Solomon took a long, measured breath and slowly turned to Jacques. Did tears glisten in his eyes? Thick with emotion, he said, “Welcome home, Master Black… you have no idea how long we have waited for your arrival.”

But after only a few heartbeats, he composed himself again and just said, “Come on now, don’t dally.”

***

Stepping out of the car, Maison Noir appeared unexpectedly welcoming to Jacques, who hadn’t been there before. Its warm lights provided a stark contrast to the eerie events of the night.

With Jacques carrying Alex again, they approached the entrance. Solomon walked ahead, guiding them without words. Jacques experienced some concern, but mostly relief washing over him as they finally stepped inside.

Without looking left or right, they passed the entrance hall and Solomon led them through the hallways of Maison Noir, his steps sure and confident. Soon, they reached a bedroom that seemed prepared for their arrival. The room was richly appointed, with a large canopied bed, a large sofa with a folded, soft looking blanket, heavy drapes, and antique furniture, creating a comforting and serene ambiance.

Before Jacques could lay Alex down, Solomon’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “We need to clean him up first,” he said. “Take a shower with him and wash off the dirt and grime. He needs to be cared for properly.”

Jacques hesitated for a moment, glancing at Alex’s deformed and bloated body. A pang of concern and revulsion hit him, but he understood the necessity. With a nod, he followed Solomon’s instructions. The caretaker helped him maneuver Alex into the adjoining bathroom, where a spacious shower awaited.

The hot water cascaded over them, washing away the filth and the remnants of the night’s ordeal. Jacques carefully scrubbed Alex’s skin, ignoring the unnatural swellings and contours beneath his fingers. Despite the odd texture, he focused on the task, his mind whirling with unanswered questions.

Once Alex was clean, Jacques toweled him off and carried him back to the bedroom. With gentle care, he laid Alex down on the bed. The mattress seemed to embrace Alex’s form, and his breaths came deep and even. Sleep had claimed him.

“Rest now,” Solomon said, his tone both commanding and soothing. “You both need to recover.“

With a warm, caring smile, he first looked at the sleeping Alex, then at Jacques. Stepping outside the room, he closed the door softly.

Jacques complied, the fog of fatigue enveloping him. For a moment, he contemplated climbing into bed beside Alex. He actually looked better, less bloated, and the symbols on his skin were much dimmer now. But it was clear, the magic was still at work. Although the softness of the mattress called to Jacques, he settled for the sofa instead. Weariness engulfed him like a wave, pulling him down into the depths of sleep, where dreams and reality blurred into one.

As Jacques drifted off, his last thoughts were a mix of concern for Alex and curiosity about the mysteries that seemed to surround Maison Noir. Solomon’s presence was a constant reassurance that, despite the night’s horrors, they were safe here. Listening to the sounds of the house, they seemed alive. The wind whispering through the shutters like a lullaby, the ticking of an old clock like a relaxed heart beat, the creaking of floorboards, as if a worn, old man contently settled down for the night. Somewhere, far off, he thought he heard a woman’s voice speaking in French. He didn’t understand, but he knew it was a blessing.

Peacefully, he drifted off to sleep.

He felt safe.

He finally was home.