Land of the Haunted Dolls

LAND OF THE

HAUNTED DOLLS

SUSAN LIEN WHIGHAM

Land of the Haunted Dolls is a work of fiction. Certain well-known historical figures, cities, landmarks, brands, works of art, and actual events have been referenced for the purpose of establishing the time and setting of the fictional narrative. All characters, places and events are otherwise fictitious creations from the author’s imagination and any resemblance thereof to actual persons, living or dead, places or events is coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 Susan Lien Whigham. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce, distribute or transmit any part of this publication in any form without the express written consent of the author, except in specific non-commercial contexts as permitted by copyright law.

University of New Orleans®, Pepto Bismol®, Givenchy®, New Orleans Saints®, Midori®, MTV Classic®, Stanford University®, Burberry®, Valium®, Gucci®, Mercedes Benz®, Facebook®, Alcoholics Anonymous (AA)®, Glock®, YouTube®, Sega Games®, Mortal Kombat®, Camel®, Absolut®, Haldol®, Patrón®, Sears®, Librium®, Google®, Honda Motor Company®, and Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT)® are registered trademarks whose mention in the novel constitute fair use and do not represent any endorsement or sponsorship on the part of respective parties.

Medical Legal Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment purposes only, and not intended to be a substitute for professional medical or legal advice. Always consult a trained professional before making any decision regarding treatment of yourself or others.

ISBN: 978-0-9858699-2-2 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-0-9858699-1-5 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-9858699-0-8 (Ebook)

Edited by Stephanie Whigham

First Printing, 2021

www.landofthehaunteddolls.com

Dedicated to Stephanie and Sean

Preface and Trigger Warning

This story, part one of a trilogy, explores themes of mental health, addiction, bigotry, demon possession, gun violence, sexual assault, self harm, and suicide, among others. My intention in dramatizing these topics is not to make light of such heavy subject matter, but rather to catalyze discussion and strategies for healing.

Please note that not all human trafficking victims are trafficked for sex, nor are they all female; they should not be confused with those who voluntarily choose commercial sex work. Whether involved in the sex trade by choice or by coercion, sex workers face great danger arising not only from physical violence from pimps and their clients, but also from authorities who prosecute and criminalize them for breaking the law.

As with Christianity, specific beliefs and practices of Vodou may vary from one person or one group to the next, while still sharing certain commonalities. Out of respect for initiated practitioners of Vodou, I’ve refrained from going into great specificity about its rituals and practice, because my intention is not to teach how it’s done, but rather to tell a story about conflicting ideologies. For the sake of a mostly Western audience, I utilize the Voodoo spelling that originated in New Orleans. I invite those interested in learning more about its roots in Haitian Vodou to investigate further with assistance from expert practitioners.

In spite of my decision to depict Voodoo elements in a horror story, in my view the practice of New Orleans Voodoo, or its antecedent, Haitian Vodou, is not something to fear, but has come to be so only through Western taboos which oppose it.

The effort to represent such a deeply spiritual tradition can only fall short as it scratches the surface of its meaning. And yet, the unique significance of what the practice of Vodou brings to a story about human beings and their haunted effigies is far too important to let pass without exploration. Vodou expresses something specific in a language not as readily accessible to other Western cultures. In my view, it’s of benefit to all to learn to understand this language.

Although tenets of Vodou do resonate with me (as do those of many belief systems), I would not characterize myself strictly as a Vodouisant. I’m a pantheist, and I believe that Vodou is one of many valid paths to spiritual understanding. As any Vodouisant can affirm, my initiation into the world of the lwa would have been impossible without the necessary faith, humility and sacrifice to go with it.

As with any work of fiction, this story is for entertainment purposes only, and not intended to be a substitute for professional medical or legal advice. Even though different therapeutic options are talked about in the story, it doesn’t mean that any one in particular is necessarily right or wrong for you. Every person has their own unique individual complexities, so it’s really in your own best interest to seek professional guidance if you’re experiencing any kind of disagreeable medical or legal situation.

If you’re having an emergency, please seek immediate help by calling your doctor, going to an emergency department, or in the United States, by calling 9-1-1. If you’re contemplating suicide, toll-free suicide hotlines are available in most areas throughout the world. In the United States, the National Suicide Prevention Helpline (800-273-8255) is available around the clock and will transfer the call to a hotline in your area. Your future self will thank you!

In the rural South of the United States, it’s not uncommon to find white people speaking American White Southern English (AWSE), a dialect which shares history with and in many ways closely resembles African-American Vernacular English (AAVE). I was exposed quite a bit to these forms of language growing up, not only from Black friends but from white family as a native way of speaking. The use of AAVE in the story is born from my experiences growing up with a Southern family, and I reference it with great respect for its existence in American culture.

Please note that it’s impossible to tell a diverse story without attempting to empathize with other cultures. Telling a diverse story may invite the perception that any given character is meant to assert what is typical of a particular race, religion, country, or culture. The characters in this story have been through trauma, many with absent or abusive parental figures, and this commonality of experience merely happens to be what drew them together. It’s certainly not my intention to say what’s typical.

Land of the Haunted Dolls, in its various manifestations, is a collaboration of kindred spirits and an examination of our intersectionality. As a storyteller, I hope to help pave the way toward a more pluralistic culture and a world where all have access to opportunities to share their stories. I’m deeply grateful to God and all those who have inspired and facilitated this work. As always, I welcome opportunities to further my understanding.

Thank you for coming along on this journey,

Susan Lien Whigham, author

https://www.landofthehaunteddolls.com

Prologue

I had met Ms. Titi Beaumond and her cousin Ms. Rochelle Roy more than a decade ago, when I was studying journalism at the University of New Orleans. Back when we met, she was known locally as Madame T, which was the name of her Voodoo/Hoodoo practice on Bourbon Street for readings, rootwork and spells. Many years after we had become good friends, and knowing me to be a writer, she asked me to put together a complete accounting of some paranormal events she and Rochelle had experienced which took place in the fall of 2016, two months before the United States of America would hold a historic election between the first female candidate for president in U.S. history and the first male candidate for president in U.S. history to run without any prior political experience.

She had warned me that it was a complicated story, and not just because of the sheer number of people involved—four of them were victims of a sex and drug trafficking ring, women who came from different parts of the world, and who were each manifesting multiple identities for reasons I will get into more detail about later. This was part of the reason that Titi felt with conviction that she should ask me to tell the story rather than attempt to tell it herself.

She wanted the record of it to bring to light the different perspectives of the many people involved, which besides these four women, included her above-mentioned cousin Rochelle, her ex-husband Carlos (with whom Rochelle was in a relationship at the time), her family members, some of Rochelle’s colleagues at the Department of Justice, and the doctors and staff who bore witness to these events at Glen Haven Psychiatric Hospital, all of whom I’ve interviewed in great detail and am ready to share with you their story, with their blessing.

At Titi’s request, this is not simply a story about paranormal events, but also one of relationship complexities (some already hinted at) and the strange paths we’re drawn through in search of closure. Some of it may defy belief but, as the saying goes, stranger things have happened.

Act One

Look upon me, you who reflect upon me,

and you hearers, hear me.

You who are waiting for me,

take me to yourselves.

And do not banish me from your sight.

For I am the first and the last.

I am the honored one and the scorned one.

I am the whore and the holy one.

Give heed then, you hearers

and you also, the angels

and those who have been sent,

and you spirits who have

arisen from the dead.

—Selected from The Thunder, Perfect Mind

Nag Hammadi Library

(discovered circa 4th century)

Chapter One

Rewind.

Replay.

Inside a darkened psychiatric hospital in the West Village, Manhattan, New York City, it was ten minutes short of 3 a.m., the witching hour. In less than seven days, four sex trafficking victims would attempt to murder their pimp.

Special Agent Rochelle Roy sat solemnly in a room dimly lit by a small lamp mounted to the headboard of a hospital bed, in a wooden chair across from a young female patient whose origins were as yet unknown. Yesterday, during her intake interview, the young woman had given her name as Abeni (which she pronounced like Albany without the L), unable to remember her own last name. That was when she was still conscious, before the withdrawal from the crack cocaine began to shift gears, sending her toward a near-comatose state.

Her identity was a mystery. Unaware of how long she had been in New York, or how she had gotten there, Abeni now sat catatonic in a hospital bed, propped up on pillows and staring into the empty space in front of her, oblivious to Rochelle’s concerned presence and the dim sound of a small television set mounted to the corner wall casting dancing shadows on her face, the soft din of voices in the hallway punctuated by the periodic beep of the heart and blood pressure monitor. Her light brown skin was pocked with numerous scars and covered with a thin layer of sweat which clung to her face and scalp, and matted her thin, broken hair.

She and three other women, somewhere in their mid- to late-twenties, had been rescued during an organized crime bust led by Rochelle’s team at the FBI Human Trafficking Unit which took down a small cocaine and sex trafficking ring in Upstate New York, operated by one Alejandro Serrano León of Juárez City, Mexico, better known to his compadres as Jandro.

Close to an hour before, Rochelle had walked four windy city blocks to the hospital, through streets strewn with autumn leaves making one last irreverent gesture in death to litter the sidewalks after the street sweepers had just passed through, straight from last call at the bar a block from her Greenwich Village loft, while anticipating another night of insomnia. The sight of Abeni’s weathered face, aged far beyond her years, wrinkled like dead leaves withered and dry under a paradox of night dew, tore at Rochelle’s weary heart.

How does this happen to a human being? said Rochelle, shaking her head, forcing herself to inhale like she was drowning in something invisible, looking down at the keys dangling from her clasped hands and then back up at Abeni. I don’t know what to say. I’m just sorry. I’m so sorry for what you’ve suffered. I promise you, I will do whatever it takes to bring your suffering to justice. I just need you to hold on, okay?

Abeni failed to respond, as the vaulted ceilings hunched over them like vultures. This building filled with misfits smelled like illness and death, and seemed increasingly sinister every time Rochelle came here. The world at large was also becoming a more sinister place day by day for Rochelle, who as both a woman of color and a law enforcement officer often felt like a misfit herself, especially when thus far this year, some half a dozen high-profile cases of police brutality against unarmed young Black men had come to light. Her mother had questioned more than once her desire to work so hard for a system that attacked both her race and her gender. Her answer always came with quiet solemnity: because this is where I can make a difference.

A brick relic in a city bursting with metal skyscrapers, Glen Haven Psychiatric Hospital was as much a misfit as the tormented souls she housed. Built in 1847 in the West Village during the third cholera pandemic, and still dressed in her original Romanesque Revival architecture, the hospital had the look of a medieval castle, with a charcoal-gray stone facade, columned towers with Gothic stained glass windows, and masonry arches supporting her vaulted ceilings.

There on the fifth floor, where the intensive care unit was housed, Rochelle sat in silence with her black trench coat neatly folded over the back of the chair, her long, dark brown hair falling in twists over the tired shoulders of her blue blazer jacket, her chestnut brown skin darkened by the dimmed lighting of the night shift.

Her frown tensed in contemplation of the tragic state of the four victims. However old she felt, she knew that what had aged them was immeasurably more severe. If there was any silver lining to be found on this cloud of lead, it was that after receiving state-mandated rehab for their crack addiction, the victims could potentially put their traffickers away for life, if they could only recover to the point of being willing and able to testify.

Rochelle looked down at the keychain she hadn’t realized she was clutching tightly in her hand. A small red yarn doll was attached to the keyring, and she ran her thumb over the texture of the doll, as she often did unconsciously to relieve anxiety. She had bought the miniature keychain doll some years ago because it reminded her of a Voodoo doll, which in turn reminded her of her cousin Titi, who practiced Voodoo in New Orleans.

Having been raised in a devout Roman Catholic family, Rochelle was someone who identified as Christian, and had not intended for the keychain to honor the practice of Voodoo so much as represent a lack of reverence for it, to show that it failed to inspire fear in her. Staring at the yarn which wound round its faceless head and body, she could not escape the irony of being faced with the prospect of calling Titi to consult on this case, after a number of odd details had come up concerning Voodoo during the intake interviews. Silly superstition, she thought, shaking her head.

The silhouette of a hooded figure stepped into the doorway, and Rochelle looked up. The contrast of the dim lighting in the room and the brightness of the hallway light masked the details of the woman’s face, but Rochelle could see that she was wearing a long, rose-pink maxi dress and a large black and gold heart-shaped pendant which had the name Freda inscribed in capital letters across the center of it. Alongside the pendant was a string of pink pearls, and the woman’s hands appeared to be tucked into a black fur muff to protect her from the cold.

Yes? asked Rochelle, wondering if she was here visiting one of the patients in the hospital and had wandered into the wrong room. Can I help you?

The stranger stepped forward into the light and Rochelle could see the light-skinned face of a woman with Afrocentric features. Her eyebrows were tensed in anger, and she flung the black bundle of fur onto the bed. Look what you’ve done, she said to Rochelle through gritted teeth, before abruptly turning to leave.

What the…? said Rochelle, reaching over to lift the fur object to try to figure out why she would throw it on Abeni’s bed. Rochelle realized in horror that it wasn’t a hand muff at all, but rather a freshly killed black cat with a long silver knife driven into its chest. Its body was limp, but still warm. Rochelle leaped to her feet with a loud shriek, her heart pulsing wildly.

A pear-shaped nurse named Maisie Laoise was shuffling down the hallway at that moment, carrying a folded cotton blanket over her arm, wearing in honor of her 47th birthday a festive scrub top with pink and yellow cupcakes on it, and coordinating scrub pants the color of Pepto Bismol. Her long, straight, sandy brown hair was pulled into a sensible ponytail at the base of her skull, and a pair of bifocals dangled on a thin cord around her neck. She jumped at the sight of Rochelle standing in the darkened room. Special Agent Roy! she said, catching her breath as she walked over.

Stop that woman in the hall! ordered Rochelle. Please! Quickly!

Maisie turned back into the hallway and looked around, but there was no one there. What happened? Is everything alright? asked Maisie.

That woman who just left came in here and threw a dead cat on Abeni’s bed. Freda! I think her name was Freda.

A dead cat! Where is it?

Rochelle looked down at the bed in front of her, but the cat was gone. Rochelle slid down into her chair, trying to understand what had just happened. She felt light-headed; her face was pale with fright.

Having worked more than twenty years at a psychiatric hospital, Maisie was unfazed by Rochelle’s alarmed reaction. What brings you in at this hour? she said kindly, changing the subject, twisting her plastic pink watch around her wrist and consulting the time. She walked over to Rochelle and regarded her with concern.

Rochelle glared. She thinks I’m crazy. I couldn’t sleep.

Oh! said Maisie, catching a whiff of Rochelle’s breath and turning her face away with a reflexive cough. Have you been drinking? she asked, then regretted the question, quickly backpedaling out of Rochelle’s personal space.

Rochelle looked down at the yarn doll without answering. She hadn’t intended to go out drinking tonight. There was something that had upset her, what was it?

Chapter Two

Her thoughts wandered back to 7 o’clock, when she was wrapping up working late at the office. She recalled that everything was looking especially gray for some reason. Her putty-colored desk was gray, the cubicle walls were gray, the floor was gray, and even her boyfriend Carlos, staring out at her from behind the glass of a brushed silver picture frame on her desk, with his pale skin and goofy bearded smile which struggled to mask his fatigue, somehow seemed gray today. The fluorescent lights added their finishing touch to help suffocate any hint of a soul from her work environment.

Her good friend and colleague, Dr. Lin Mei Chen, the forensic psychologist assigned to the case, walked into the office just as Rochelle was getting ready to leave for the night, Lin Mei’s long shiny black hair pulled back into a bun as per usual for work. Beyond the black, cat-eye frames of her designer eyeglasses, Lin Mei’s eyes looked puffy, as if she’d been crying. Rochelle refrained from commenting on it.

Hey Chelle, said Lin Mei with a lowkey cheery tone that seemed to be more than she could afford. So glad I caught you. The network is still down for scheduled maintenance. Can I get the case file from you before you head out? Reid said he had it couriered to you this afternoon. Did you get a chance to review the files?

Yeah, said Rochelle, looking away at the clock, impatient to leave for no particular reason. She briskly walked back over to her desk and unlocked the top drawer, retrieving an encrypted memory card from an envelope and handing it to Lin Mei.

Not much to go on there. Quila González, the Latina, has a record from when she was picked up during a trafficking sting in El Paso ten years ago. She was seventeen years old back then and already a crack addict. She’s the oldest of the four. It’s a miracle she’s lasted this long. Facial recognition identified the blonde as Olena Petrenko, aka Lena Flaxen, a former child porn star from Kiev. The sociolinguistics analysis from the intake interviews identifies Abeni’s accent as Nigerian, likely from the Borno region. Then we have Eka, the red-head, whom they believe is from the country of Georgia, probably Tbilisi. She speaks Russian, but her native language is Georgian. That’s all we’ve got on Abeni or Eka. Not even a last name to go on, but it’s possible they’ve been brainwashed to obscure their identities. How did the pre-arraignment psych evals go? I heard the defense is considering an insanity plea? And he wants to name the vics as accomplices? Is he for real?

There’s plenty of evidence of coercion, said Lin Mei, looking closely at the SD card and committing its appearance to memory before dropping it into her inside zippered jacket pocket. Then she noticed her button-down shirt was coming untucked, and shifted awkwardly to tuck it back in. So naming them as accomplices won’t go anywhere. His attorney is really grasping at straws. He would have been better off going with the public defender. I found Jandro competent to stand trial. There might be some substance to an insanity defense, though.

Give me a break. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he’s been doing it for more than a decade. And what about his trafficking partners? They were insane too?

His cousin Danny said he’s not right in the head. Says he kills people, and animals too, to drink their blood. Hallucinates, and has conversations with his hallucinations. Some other weird stuff too.

Hm, okay, said Rochelle, glancing down to turn the information over in her mind. Probably using too much of his own product. I mean, the vics are saying he’s demon-possessed, so maybe there’s some definite mental illness there. Not that we didn’t know he’s a real sicko. Weird that Danny would want to add murder charges to the mix. Must not be too fond of Jandro.

I think it’s fear… of something… I don’t know, said Lin Mei, struggling to find the right words. I think he’s ready to shut down the family business, for reasons other than a guilty conscience.

Not sure what you’re implying.

Lin Mei wasn’t convinced of the existence of paranormal activity enough to debate it, but her mind was open to the possibility. No clues as to why they’re claiming Voodoo? she asked, instead of answering the question.

No, said Rochelle, eyeing the clock again. And I got a call from Dr. Varma at Glen Haven this afternoon. They’re still completely catatonic, all four of them.

Why don’t you go home and get some rest, said Lin Mei, noting that Rochelle looked as exhausted as Lin Mei felt. I’ll keep working on it.

Rochelle knew Lin Mei’s heart was in the right place, but the admonition rubbed her the wrong way. Obviously, Rochelle was leaving work now, what was the point of telling her to go home? Now that you mention it, I was actually planning to ditch the dongle tonight and go deep diving for navel lint. Did I tell you? Bellybutton fluff is my new favorite hobby.

Lin Mei cracked a weathered smile. Really. Bellybutton fluff?

I got plenty of rest yesterday already, said Rochelle, glaring. That was the whole point of Reid sending us home early. But anyway, thanks again for coming by yesterday. I know you mean well.

Coming by? What do you mean? Lin Mei raised a puzzled eyebrow.

Rochelle pursed her lips. She didn’t have enough energy for this conversation. You want me to repeat it? Thanks for coming by my place. I know you were just trying to help.

But I didn’t come by your place yesterday, that’s why I’m confused. And a little worried.

Now Rochelle was puzzled too. That’s weird. I have a vivid memory of you coming by.

What did we talk about?

Rochelle sighed. You wanted me to consult with my cousin Titi on the case. I didn’t want to, for obvious reasons. Not thrilled about the idea of having to deal with the drama of working with my boyfriend’s ex-wife. I did take your suggestion and call her, though.

Well, I do think you should consult with Titi. But maybe we should schedule you a psych eval.

Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine. Just tired. You already know, I’ve been having some intense nightmares since we started this case. And don’t try to act like you haven’t yourself. Now that Jandro is behind bars, I should be able to get a good night’s sleep tonight.

Remembering things that didn’t happen is a pretty serious red flag, said Lin Mei, frowning.

Rochelle raised her eyebrows in indignation and let out a breath of scoff. Well, you’re looking pretty ragged yourself, Dr. Chen, with all due respect. Have you ever heard the expression, ‘Physician, heal thyself’? Why don’t you follow your own advice and go home and get some rest yourself? And partying with Molly is not what I would call getting some rest. Wait, you know what? Is it possible that you’re the one who’s remembering it wrong?

Lin Mei was stumped for a moment. Could it be she was the one who had it mixed up? She did feel brutally exhausted herself. The whole team had been working long hours for months. Things weren’t going well at home, either. What did I do yesterday? Lin Mei struggled to remember.

Yeah, that’s what I thought, said Rochelle. If you have to stop and wonder, then this debate is over. Let’s just leave it at that.

Check your phone, insisted Lin Mei, exasperated. She wasn’t about to let Rochelle get away without making sure she had made the call. The possibility crossed her mind that Rochelle was subconsciously convincing herself it had already happened to avoid actually having to do it. See if there’s a call to Titi from yesterday.

Rochelle inhaled sharply. Fine. She opened her cell phone and checked the recent calls list. There was no call to Titi.

Looking over her shoulder, Lin Mei sighed. Will you just call her, please?

There are plenty of Voodoo practitioners right here in New York City, you know that, right? said Rochelle, glossing over the oddity of what had just happened. "There’s no need to go all