The Chalk Mark

Marla had lived in the same small apartment above a laundromat in Duluth for twenty years. It was a place of gray skies and cold winds, but she preferred it to the sweltering heat of New Orleans, where the memories festered like mold. She had moved north to escape, but something had followed her, something that spoke with the voice of a man she had once trusted, a man named Deacon Thibodeaux, who had tried to take what was not his when she was just a girl. She had won the lawsuit, but he had won the war.

For decades, his voice had been a constant companion, a parasite in her mind. It whispered cruel things in the dead of night, ‘I am going to kill you,’ or sometimes, with mockery, ‘Congratulations, Marla, you really showed me.’ It never stopped. It was in the hum of her refrigerator, the rustle of leaves, the crackle of her radio. And it was always so clear, so undeniably his voice, that she would spin around expecting to see his gnarled face, but she was always alone.

But it was the other things that truly terrified her. The sabotage, the subtle torments that seemed to come from outside her own mind. Her mail would be opened and resealed, the contents missing. Her computer would glitch at the worst times, typing out his words on its own. Her car would veer suddenly, as if an unseen hand was wrenching the wheel, and she would hear his voice say, ‘I’m going to make you sick,’ and then she would feel the nausea hit her like a wave.

She had tried everything: therapists, psychiatrists, even a priest who performed a blessing on her apartment. They all said it was in her head, a manifestation of trauma. But Marla knew better. There was something physical about it. She had a persistent feeling that something was inside her body, a small, cold disk that hummed with a frequency only she could hear. She had begged doctors to scan her, but they found nothing.

Then the chalk started appearing. It began with a few white smudges on her favorite black jacket. She thought it was just dust from the laundromat, but then it appeared on more clothes, always on the front, always in a distinct pattern, like a child’s drawing of a hand. It was gritty and chalky, and no amount of washing would remove it. It reappeared even when she locked her closet doors. She would wake up in the morning to find fresh marks on the clothes she had laid out for the day.

The dreams were the worst. She would dream of walking through a rain-soaked street, the water rising to her waist, and in the distance, a figure in black standing under a streetlamp. She would try to call out, but no sound came. The figure would turn, and it was Deacon Thibodeaux, his face contorted in a rictus grin. He would raise a hand, and in it, a piece of chalk, and he would write something on the air. She always woke before she could read it.

One night, she had the dream again, but this time she managed to read the words he wrote: ‘You will be nothing.’ She woke with a scream, her heart pounding. She got out of bed and went to the bathroom to splash water on her face. When she looked in the mirror, there was a chalk mark on her forehead, in the same pattern as on her clothes.

She knew she had to do something. She couldn’t live like this anymore. She remembered that Deacon Thibodeaux had been from New Orleans, and she had heard rumors that he was into voodoo, the dark arts. Maybe it was a curse. She had to find a way to break it. She searched the internet for a houngan, a voodoo priest, and found one in a town on the edge of the bayou, not far from her old neighborhood. The phone number was printed in a faded advertisement in a community bulletin board, and when she called, a woman with a thick Cajun accent answered.

Marla drove for two days, the voice of Deacon Thibodeaux growing louder with each mile. It was as if he knew she was coming to confront him. When she finally reached the ramshackle house, the woman, Mama Odette, was waiting on the porch. She was ancient, with skin like leather and eyes that seemed to see through Marla’s soul.

‘Come in, child,’ Mama Odette said, her voice raspy. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

Marla stepped inside, and the air was thick with the smell of herbs and candles. Mama Odette listened to Marla’s story, nodding slowly. When Marla finished, Mama Odette leaned forward and said, ‘He put a curse on you, yes. A powerful one. He bound your spirit to his with a charm. It’s in your head, but it’s also not. He used a piece of his own soul, and he placed it in a small object, which he had you swallow without knowing. I can see it in your aura, a dark stone.’

Marla felt a chill. ‘Can you remove it?’

Mama Odette was silent for a long moment. ‘I can try, but it’s dangerous. He is still alive, and his spirit is strong. You must not be afraid. The fear gives him power.’

That night, Mama Odette performed a ritual. She had Marla drink a bitter herbal tea, and then she placed Marla in a circle of salt and candles. She chanted in a language Marla didn’t understand, and the candles flickered as if a wind were blowing through the room. Marla felt a pressure in her stomach, a coldness spreading. She heard Deacon Thibodeaux’s voice, screaming, ‘You cannot undo what I have done! You will be nothing!’

Mama Odette commanded the spirit to leave, and Marla felt something move inside her, traveling up her throat. She gagged, and a small, black object came out, landing on the floor with a clink. It was a round, obsidian disk, engraved with symbols. As it hit the ground, it cracked, and the voice of Deacon Thibodeaux let out a wail that faded into silence.

Marla felt a sudden lightness, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She thanked Mama Odette profusely, and the old woman said, ‘The curse is broken, but his anger still lives. You must be careful. He may still try to harm you, but he has no power over you now.’

Marla returned to Duluth, feeling hopeful for the first time in decades. The voice was silent. The sabotage stopped. Her car behaved. No more chalk marks on her clothes. She thought she was free.

But a week later, she woke to find a single, chalky handprint on her mirror, and this time, it was not on a wall, but on the glass, as if someone had pressed their hand against it from the outside. The same pattern. She turned on the light, and the handprint was gone. She blinked, and it appeared again, but only for a moment.

Then she heard it whispering, very faint, like a distant echo: ‘You will be nothing.’ But it was not Deacon Thibodeaux’s voice. It was hers.