The Graveyard Runes by K.D. Upton

     Mysteries intrigue me. And the etched letters on a tombstone in my family’s cemetery not only sent me down a rabbit hole of lies, deceit, and long-lost secrets, but it nearly got me killed. Let me explain. My name’s Cherry Lorraine-Archambeau, and I’m from the Lorraine-Archambeau’s of Hardwood, Louisiana. The ones whose family have owned a cotton plantation back from the early 1700s, Le Lys Doré, The Gilded Lily. Handed down from previous generations, Le Lys Doré is now a wedding attraction, historical site, and a place people come to learn about the horrid business of slavery.
     Growing up, I roamed the halls with my le pépé, sometimes straddling his back like a horse, and stared at the oil portraits of my ancestors. Never a smile or hint of mischief. They seemed to follow my every move, and as I strolled among their ghosts, they sized me up. Whether I received their approval didn’t bother me, because I ignored their pompous, stuffy gazes and danced to the rhythm of my own instrument. Le pépé taught me that. With his grayish-white hair tickling my face as I rested my chin on his shoulders. I wrapped my arms and legs around his neck and waist and held on. He’d race me down the corridors, me squealing in delight, and shout at our ancestral pictures. It was something like, “Your tyrannical era has gone,” and would add, “she’ll right your wrongs. You’ll see!” Of course, at the time, I had no idea of what he intentioned, but that day came fifteen years later on my 21st birthday.
     I remember the phone call. My heart pounded in my chest. I peered down and saw my mom’s mobile number light up on the screen. She never called. A hard lump formed in my throat and my eyes stung. Somebody had either been in an accident, or…
     I couldn’t finish the thought. It was too dreadful to imagine. My mouth turned dry when I answered, and my mother’s cool voice floated into the room.
     “Your grandfather’s dead. The funeral’s on Saturday. That’s life, right?” she chuckled. “Anyway, have you spoken with your father? Did he mention getting my last message? Surely he can’t love that girl?”
     Sound faded behind a growing buzz in my ears. Black spots speckled my vision, and I had the sudden urge to throw my phone across the room. Le pépé is dead? No. That can’t be. We were to play chess and eat ice cream this Saturday. He’d never miss our fun day. Never.
     The piercing voice of my mother reached through the fog that invaded my mind. “Well, did he? Cherry, I’m starting to think that he likes this girl.”
     I imagined her nibbling on her freshly manicured fingernail, waiting in anticipation of my response, but her lack of sorrow over le pépé’s passing left me momentarily speechless.
     I cleared my throat and swallowed hard before speaking. “Mom, I understand you’re going through a rough time, but-”
     “Rough time?” she snorted. “Cherry, your father’s sleeping with another woman. No, wait. She’s a child. A freaking child.”
     “Right,” I said still reeling over my grandfather’s death. I had to appease her in order to get more information on le pépé or else I’d sit here all night listening to her rant over how young the newest tramp was that flitted into dad’s life. “Yeah, about that. I haven’t heard from Dad in three weeks. Ever since he left for France, he’s not answered texts or calls. Sorry, mom.”
     And I really was sorry. She’d put up with his extramarital affairs since before I was born, but now wasn’t the time to commiserate. How did my grandfather die? He’d been in perfect health. The man could still run a 5k in less than 40 minutes, and he swam 50 laps daily. Then there was the horseback riding he’d do on the weekends with his buddies.
     “Ugh,” groaned my mother, “don’t even get me started. He took that floozy to Paris, of all places. That’s where he proposed to me. On top of the Eiffel Tower.” She sighed. “And now he’s on top of the Eiffel Tower diddling little miss what’s her name.”
     “Mom!” I barked, and at once regretted it. I usually kept my voice down and stayed under the radar, but the news of le pépé’s death rattled my world and left me grasping for direction. He’d been the one person who I could run to for love, understanding, and support. “What happened to le pépé? How did he die?”
     I peered down at my phone when she initially failed to respond. Nope. Still connected. And then I heard sniffling, and the guilt washed over me like a tsunami.
“Oh, Mom… I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize he meant that much to you. Can you forgive me?”
     After a few more sniffles, she responded, voice wavering, “Of course your father means a lot to me. How could you say such a horrible thing?”
     And that’s my mother. Stuck in her loop of insanity that I nor anyone else could make sense of. Once I’d convinced her I’d call Dad, she hung up, and I immediately dialed him to get some answers.
     “Hey, Dad. How are you doing?”
     His voice was strained and somber. “I’m hanging in there, kiddo. How about you?”
     A well of tears dripped down my cheeks as I struggled to find the strength to answer. “Dad…” The words sat on the tip of my tongue for a second. “How did he die?”
     My father paused. “The doctor said it was a stroke. He went quickly, though, and in his sleep. Best way to go if you ask me. I’m flying home now and will see you tonight. Hang in there, kiddo.”
     He hung up, leaving me alone in my sparse apartment sitting at my desk and starring out the window at the never-sleeping Baton Rouge. The only thing left to do was pack a bag and drive home. The last place I saw him alive, and the place that was about to turn my world upside down.