The Last Song of Julia Brown-Part 2

Episode 1, Part 2

Previously on Haintland…

September 20, 1915

You threatening me? You wait. You’ll be dead and we all gon’ be dancin’ on this land. My land! Count ya days Julia.”

Julia cracked a smile then released a haughty laugh from some place buried deep within. “You can kill me, but you’ll never have Brown land. When I die, I’m going to take this whole town with me.”

Mr. Beauchamp shook his head, the liquor waning and the rage shining through. He hawked a thick wad of spit onto the ground—it nearly landed on the porch step. He snapped the reigns and commanded the horses to get on.

The three women watched as the wagon sped away into the night. Josephine came up next to her mother, a tiny swathed capsule cradled in her arms. “Mama, what we gon’ do with this baby boy?” she asked.

“We do what we’ve always done. Feed the land.”

September 27

Seven days had passed since the sacrifice.

Seven days since the land consumed their offering. But Julia’s worry clung to her like ivy wrapped around an iron fence, tightening with every breath she took. She’d tried hiding the pain she was in, covering it with more herbs and tinctures. Blessings and even curses. It was all a show, really—a mask to hide the truth that would present itself soon. Julia knew her fate, but she wasn’t ready to let the girls in. Especially not Josephine.

But Marie Claudette understood.

She’d felt her mother’s heartbeat slow these last few days. She knew that the cough was more than the humid air creeping in. The two of them shared knowing glances, the kind that felt like a long-simmering pot of dread. The kind that knew trouble was just a few steps away. It wasn’t the threat of Mr. Beauchamp coming back. No, this was something else, something much darker.

The land was not satisfied.

For years, they had made offerings, sacrifices, to appease the land. And in return, it had granted them protection, not only from the volatile weather but from the white men who thought that free Black women had no claim to America’s land. But now, as Julia stared at Marie Claudette’s swollen belly, that protection felt useless—like no matter what choices she made, the land would always demand more. The weight of the land’s hunger pressed down on her chest, a gnawing, insatiable feeling. It was clear: the land was hungry for her legacy. But it was no longer hers to give.

“This one’s gonna be big. Folks ought to get going. What Paul say?” Josephine asked, her eyes fixed on the darkening sky.

Paul, Marie Claudette’s man, worked as a baggage handler at the new train depot. The jewel of Frenier, the depot had broken ground three weeks ago and promised progress for its citizens—a railroad through their small town, connecting them to life outside of the bayou. He and the other Black worker, Thomas Lee, were tasked with reinforcing the depot, getting it prepared for the storm. Everyone else was free to go home to their families.

“Say he got to stay over ‘til they let ‘em go home. Maybe after the storm,” Marie Claudette responded, an edge of frustration in her delivery.

“Damn shame,” Julia muttered through clenched teeth. She hated the thought of her future son-in-law sleeping on hard planks, doing thankless labor, guarding a wooden shrine from a storm that would have no mercy. Josephine just sucked her teeth, easing closer to the railing, turning her attention back to the growing storm.

Marie Claudette’s hands rested on her hips, her stance defensive, like she was ready for what was coming. Julie took note of her daughter, bold and unflinching. Just like her. A sharp pang of worry twisted in her chest. Marie Claudette knew many things, but the kind of chaos Julia had conjured was beyond her understanding. Nevertheless, Julia’s girls were taught to be ready: Marie Claudette to leap into her mother’s role as traiteur. Josephine, to be the soft landing to her sister’s hard jumps.

Julia hoped that her daughters were prepared for what was about to descend upon them and what they would have to do.

Julia sat back in her rocking chair and let out a long breath. A hum stirred deep in her belly before shooting up through her throat. She began to hum softly at first, then rising with power, “I’m gonna take this whole town with me. When I die, I’m gonna take this old place with me.” The words cascaded from her lips and floated into the air, tugging at the clouds themselves, demanding them to obey. Josephine and Marie Claudette joined in, their voices weaving into a haunting chorus that rattled the earth beneath them.

For a moment, the power of the three women, harmonizing together, calmed the land.

The evening yanked down a curtain over the hot Louisiana sky. The women had stayed outside most of the afternoon, ignoring the sweat beading on their foreheads, letting good conversation and sweet tea soothe the heat. As they prepared to head back indoors, Josephine saw a swirl of dust rolling around the corner.

Two black cars sped down the road, grinding onto the gravel path that led to their house.

Josephine didn’t need the sight to know exactly who it was.

The sheriff was the first to climb out of the beat-up old car—probably a hand-me-down from the LaPlace office. He waddled around to face them, gun cocked, as two deputies joined him. Behind him stood a polished Mr. Beauchamp. He had slicked his hair back, the bright red tint now dulled and coifed into a maroon scoop perched on his head. His eyes, swollen and sunken, were deep pits of thin, stretched skin. His suit, a navy blue suede thing with a tag that was probably attached, made him look even sleazier than he already did.

“Glad we caught you…girls outside,” the sheriff drawled. There was no need to introduce himself, everyone knew he was the sheriff. And besides, everyone knew a Boudreaux when they saw one. “Julia,” he continued, his voice heavy and laced with familiarity. “Now we been having a peaceful situation here, but Beauchamp tells me you killed his baby boy and hoodooed his wife. His wife was carted off to an asylum in New Orleans. She ain’t getting out and Beauchamp here is saddled with four little girls ‘cause of you.” The sheriff shifted on his flat feet, letting his gun gleam in the faint moonlight. He took them all in with an air of righteousness dripping with contempt.

Julia didn’t move. Didn’t bother to say a word. There was no point in rejecting the sheriff’s claims. The truth was the truth.

The two deputies, both thin and worn down like old boots, put their hands on their guns in unison.

Twitchy.

They’d surely heard the whispers about the women of Brown land. Whispers of strange happenings and things that never quite sat right. That kind of dark magic and savagery was far from the bright scripture they clung to. Julia and everything surrounding her was the kind of thing you only spoke of in hushed voices, if you dared speak at all.

The air was thick with anticipation. No one spoke. The sheriff cleared his throat.

“Julia, we gonna let justice decide your fate. Ain’t no need to make this hard. We not gon’ hurt you, but you coming with us tonight. Get yourself down here, proper. I don’t want to drag you, but I will.”

Julia walked closer to the railing and looked up at the sky. “Looks like ya’ll have better things to do than bother me, cher. Weather getting bad, ya’ll should head out. Get somewhere safe…if you can.”

The deputies exchanged a look, something like fear and utter disbelief mingled in their eyes. But neither moved. The sheriff stayed rooted to the ground, weighing his next move. Those old whispers about the Browns and Brown land heavy on his thoughts.

Beauchamp, unable to contain his rage, shoved his way in front of the deputies. “You gonna disobey the law? See that, Boudreaux? She thinks she’s above you! That uppity witch gotta hang! She killed my boy, and God knows what’s going to happen to my poor wife. She ain’t fit to bargain with! Drag her ass down here, or I’ll do it myself!”

His face, flushed with rage, looked like it might burst from the intensity of his threats.

Sheriff Boudreaux’s collar was soaked with sweat. He wiped the moisture from his brow with the back of his chubby hand. Whether the profuse dampness came from the stifling humidity or the fear of what the witches would do to them was uncertain.

“Julia,” he began again, his voice quivering, torn between duty and fear. “Now, I’m the law round here. I’m handling you as respectable as I can, given what you’ve done. But if you don’t come with me, this town’s gonna want to take justice into its own hands. And nobody wants that. Be respectable. If you don’t come down those steps, I’ll have these deputies escort you down. And they ain’t as nice as me.”

On cue, the deputies stepped forward.

The one with the long face drew his gun, hands trembling, and pointed it at Julia. He motioned the other one to move up the stairs. The second deputy, dripping with fear, took one step toward the porch, then two. As his foot touched the first step, the bottles on the porch woke up. They clanged and rocked with such ferocity it was like a guard dog barking at an intruder. And then the wind began to howl.

A sharp gust of cold air swept across the men, sending a chill down their spines.

The long-faced deputy took a step back, spooked by the sudden bite of cold. The other deputy kept his gun pointed at Julia, his finger shaking on the trigger.

Suddenly, the wind picked up, howling louder, transforming into a guttural cry, like a wounded animal. The rustling of leaves from the tall cypress trees grew louder, spreading across Brown land like a plague. The men, now keenly aware that something was very wrong with this place, backed up, huddling together like a pack of cornered dogs. Beauchamp, still standing at the front, his face twisted with rage, growled,“I don’t give a damn about your hoodoo! I’m gonna get justice one way or another!”

In a fit of fury, he snatched the deputy’s gun and fumbled with the trigger. Beauchamp was a gambler, a drunkard, and a womanizer—but a good shot he was not.

The first bullet flew past Marie Claudette’s ear, buzzing like a gnat too close to a flame. The second hit a blue bottle on the porch and ricocheted, disappearing into the damp ground. The wind snatched the gun from Beauchamp’s hand, dropping it a few inches over in a grassy patch.

The earth responded.

The land, hungry, opened up like a mouth. The men stared, shocked, as the deep hole swallowed the gun in satisfaction.

The bayou sounds stilled, eerily silent, as the land accepted the offering.

Sheriff Boudreaux stood frozen, eyes wide, unsure if what he’d just witnessed was real. And just as soon as he’d mustered the courage to speak, the ground shook beneath them. The men clung to each other, stumbling backward toward the patrol cars. They jumped in, nearly losing limbs as they sped off without bothering to close the doors.

The land was fed, but this wasn’t the nourishment it was used to.

It wanted another sacrifice. Something human.

Julia stayed up for hours murmuring to herself and pacing the floor. She’d break out into song and cry out on the porch. The land, filled with impunity, rumbled. Marie Claudette watched the scene—her mother in some kind of spiritual warfare with the land that had once protected them. She hugged her belly, suddenly aware that they were all in danger. But Josephine stood by the window, looking out, watching as if something were watching her back.

“Josie?” Marie Claudette called. “Come on back and lay down. Mama will be alright.”

But Josephine didn’t move.

Instead, she motioned to her sister. “Come over here,” she whispered. Marie Claudette waddled to the window. She saw her mother kneeling on the porch, deep in prayer.

“I know. I told you, she’ll be okay. It’s just—”

“No. Not that. Look over by the bayou.”

Marie Claudette looked. Then she looked harder. Besides the mounds of dirt and offerings meant to venerate the dead, there was nothing. The bayou was calm. A single pirogue rocked back and forth gently. Josephine turned to her sister, eyes wide, shocked that Marie Claudette couldn’t see it. She nodded toward a dimly lit patch of land.

“They just standing there, watching.”

“Who?” Marie Claudette questioned.

“The haints. They waiting for her,” Josephine whispered.

Marie Claudette felt a powerful kick on her side. She shuffled to the door, moving toward her mother. She bent down and put her hands on both of Julia’s shoulders.

“Mama, come in. You’ve gotta come in right now.”

But Julia just sighed, unable to rise. She’d used everything in her to protect her family. She couldn’t rise again.

“Josie! Come out and help me get Mama up!”

The sisters brought Julia in and helped her into bed. She motioned for her quilt, the one her mama had made for her when she first got married. They tucked her under the quilt and watched as she took shallow breaths. Josephine climbed into bed, snuggling right under her mother, while Marie Claudette turned toward the window, unwilling to let them see the tears falling down her cheeks.

“It’s okay, Mama. You’ve done well. We’re okay—we know what to do,” Josephine whispered, squeezing her mother’s hand. She held her hand tight until daylight broke through the window. Until she saw her mother’s spirit standing beside a sleeping Marie Claudette in the rocking chair. Josephine patted her mother’s cold hand before covering her face with the quilt.

The evening wind whistled as the girls sat on the porch. They’d buried their mother quickly and quietly. Under any other circumstances, they’d send word that the great Julia Brown was gone—that her spirit had joined the ancestors. Under other circumstances, they’d have a proper funeral for their mother, a closed ritual with the women from nearby communities who shared Julia’s gifts. But today was no ordinary day.

The trees bent into the wind, the sky swirled with indigo and coal black strokes of color. The sky sparked with lightning hidden deep within the ominous clouds.

The storm was coming, and it was too late to take cover.

The Brown girls had ridden out many storms—as bayou people do. But this one, they knew, was different. They’d heard their mother’s songs, joined in even. Their mother had conjured the storm to punish the community that threatened her, the same community that had sneered at her ways while secretly coveting her power. Death was the only way to cleanse the area, to make a new start for her family—to baptize the evil of the land. Marie Claudette knew that her mother was right, but she wasn’t sure if they’d survive the storm. Wasn’t sure that they’d know what to do.

Josephine looked out in the yard and saw their mother’s spirit standing near a gnarled cypress tree. The limbs bent so low they nearly touched the ground, moss hanging from it like a veil. Julia was there. Protecting them, still.

Now Josephine knew something that Marie Claudette did not: Trouble was not over.

The next morning, the girls decided to leave. The wind had peaked overnight, and the backdoor had had swung open with a loud thud. A tree branch had shattered the back window and their little house had rocked all night.

Josephine carried the heavier items for her sister as they headed toward the pirogue anchored to the deck. The wind battered against them and the rain covered them. But the water was surprisingly still. It rocked back and forth, almost like it was inviting them in.

They heard the sound of a horse neighing behind them.

Beauchamp.

He’d snuck up on them amidst the storm’s raucous.

Beauchamp wore two wooden crosses and held out a crucifix as he approached the girls. Josephine dropped the items softly to the ground.

“What do you want? Storm is coming—my mama told you to take cover. Even though it won’t you no good.”

“Where is that witch? Everyone act like they scare of her—scared of this place. This is my land! I’m the rightful heir, not no damn bastard!” he said, spinning in circles, careful that the witch wouldn’t sneak up on him. “Come out you witch! Come out you demon! I’ve got the power of Christ with me!”

Marie Claudette shifted the bag in her hands, anger causing her hands to shake. The wind had caught her long braids, whipping them around like a jump rope. “My mama is gone. She dead! Now gone bout your business!” she screamed.

“You’re a damn liar!” he spat. “Jul-yaa! Come out and meet your maker!” Beauchamp replaced the crucifix with a bottle of holy water, holding it up and thrashing it around like a shield.

The wind answered him with a branch that flew dangerously close to his face.

A car came speeding down the road and stopped right by the porch. Sheriff Boudreaux jumped out and ran toward Beauchamp, fighting through the sheet of rain. “T-boy, we gotta go. The depot…the goddamn wind done—it’s gone, all of it! Whole thing just collapsed. Jesus, all them people gone. Your girls…T-boy. They gone. I’m sorry to tell ya like this, but the storm is only gonna get worse. We’re right under the eye! We gotta go now. Leave these witches, they ain’t gonna survive this storm!” he pleaded, his heart pounding fast with grief and fear.

Marie Claudette whimpered. She had heard the sheriff’s words and gulped it down with the rest of her sorrow.

Paul. Her man was gone.

Josephine grabbed her hand.

“My girls? Everybody gone?” Beauchamp asked as if the news hadn’t settled in the first time. The sheriff motioned for him to follow. Lightning cracked again, and this time Beauchamp’s horse broke free of its reins, galloping off down the road. Beauchamp’s face drooped, sorrow flickered across his face. But that brief moment of weakness was quickly replaced by a burning fury. “Bring that witch out here! She took everything from me! I’m gonna kill her with my bare hands.”

“She’s gone! Goddamnit she’s gone! She ain’t coming back. My mama is dead!” Marie Claudette screamed, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t stomach Beauchamp’s rage any longer, nor could she fully process her own grief.

Beauchamp looked at each girl— the tears in the Marie Claudette’s eyes and the cold, unwavering hatred in Josephine’s gaze. A feeling of righteousness fell over him, and he shouted.

“Thank you! Yes, Jesus. This land is mine. Finally—it’s mine!” He thanked Jesus a few more times, oblivious to the heavy raindrops now falling faster, filling the air with a buzzing sound. He didn’t see Julia’s daughters as heirs, more like an inconvenience he could easily rid himself of. After what had happened earlier, the sheriff had agreed that something had to be done about the Browns. Their evil had no place in Frenier. They’d planned to wait ‘til after the storm to exact their justice.

Lightning cracked across the sky again, startling Beauchamp. He finally noticed the girls, saw that they had walked off.

“Wait! You wait just a damn minute. Where’s she buried?” he demanded. “I want to spit on her grave!”

The girls ignored him.

“T-boy,” the sheriff begged. “Let ‘em go. They ain't gonna get far. Get in the car with me. We gotta get out of Frenier right now!”

But Beauchamp, too consumed by vengeance for a ghost, stalked closer to them, slowly at first, then faster as his confidence swelled. Whatever spell Julia had woven into the land was surely broken now that she was dead, he thought. Beauchamp stepped into Brown land, an intruder, unaware of the danger he was stumbling into. The girls, feeling the unease in the air, turned and noticed him. Josephine’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the haints drawing closer. They drifted toward him, some reaching out with glowing, skeletal hands. Their translucent form flickered against the darkness like fragments of lightning. Beauchamp remained oblivious, his rage blinding whatever was left of good sense.

The rain fell harder, a heavy sheet of water draping the land, burying it in darkness. The trees moaned, their branches twisting in discomfort at the stranger who had dared to infiltrate their domain. A crack of thunder split the sky, followed by another, and another. Each one louder than the last. The quick flashes of lightning blinded Beauchamp, and he staggered back, falling to the ground, disoriented. With each jagged flash, something more horrifying was revealed: mounds of dirt scattered as far as he could see, crooked crucifixes, spoiled food, and abandoned toys—a graveyard.

“What the hell is this?” he murmured, his heart racing, fear pushing him to his feet.

But it was too late.

The earth began to shake, a deep rumbling, like the growl of something that hadn’t eaten in far too long.

The earth opened little by little. Beauchamp slid into the ground like he was trapped in quicksand. He screamed, his voice strangled with terror, and shook the holy water at the ground. The liquid mixed with the muddy puddles surrounding him. The sheriff’s scream pierced the air, and he bolted back into his car, boots thudding against the mud. He sped off, a trail of hot mud slinging behind him.

Beauchamp’s sharp cries shredded through the wind and echoed across the bayou. His legs sank deeper into the thick, brown mud. Suddenly, hands shot up from the ground, skin peeling and bones jutting out, their grabbing fingers clawing at his chest and arms. They dragged him down, the land pulling him in, feeding its hunger.

“Help me! Jesus Christ—don’t stand there. Help me! I’m a Christian man!” Beauchamp pleaded with the girls, but there was no use. Josephine watched, frozen, as the haints floated around him. There must have been hundreds of them, some with faces she recognized and others with faces twisted in rage—souls that weren’t from Brown land. The haints multiplied, inching closer to Beauchamp, pressing in like a storm. Josephine gasped as she saw Thomas Lee’s face, his angry eyes locking with hers. These were the souls from the depot. Angry. Confused.

Newly deceased.

She frantically searched for Paul’s face, but he was nowhere to be found. Her grip tightened around Marie Claudette, pulling her closer in relief.

The haints circled around Beauchamp, uttering a low, guttural hum, like the sound of a swamp boiling under the heat of the sun. They moved as one now, shifting left to right slowly at first, then faster, vibrating with energy. An eerie blue glow formed around Beauchamp, pulsing with the rhythm of their movement.

He could not be saved, even if the girls wanted to.

The land continued to digest him, slurping his body into the earth, each bit of him sinking deeper, disappearing piece by piece. Finally, the dirt filled his mouth, and then his lungs. His screams and curses faltered, swallowed by the land, until they stopped altogether.

And, like always, the land refilled the hole with dirt, sealing itself shut as if sewn together by invisible hands.

There was no mound to mark that a body had ever been there. There would be no offerings left for Beauchamp. No trace of his life or death.

The land was pleased.

The haints vanished one by one, their forms dissipating into the air like smoke. But Julia stayed and watched her girls drift away on the bayou. She dipped her finger into the water, guiding it, willing the current to carry her legacy safely downstream. This blessing, a final gift, was hers to give.

The pirogue glided over the calm water, an eerie stillness in stark contrast to the chaos of the storm raging behind them. The bayou would soon reclaim the land, swallowing the history of Brown land, burying its secrets beneath the water. But the girls did not look back.

Julia’s presence lingered in the heavy air, her spirit now tethered to the soil. She looked on, her gaze steady and unwavering, a final vow that her lineage would never return to this place.

She began to hum softly beneath the whistling wind of the ravaging storm.

She had done what needed to be done.

Her daughters knew what to do. They would keep the gifts alive.

And the land was hers.

Forever.

Stay tuned to the next episode, with an all new story, dropping June 12.

Special note:

The images created for this episode were rendered using a combination of graphic design tools and generative programs. If you enjoyed this story, please like and share. Your support helps me get closer to my goal of hiring talented artists to create even richer images.