Ever since her passing Geneviève has wandered the plantation and watched her family grow. Genevieve is so proud of her decedents. Despite the ravages of war, storms and hard times, this plantation did maintain many of their traditions as well as their French language. She beams with pride as Bridgette strives to educate people of their unique cultural identity forged by some four centuries of turbulent history.
Marquette Plantation is the image of everything graceful and lovely in the Deep South. In the serene moonlight, a low ground fog swirls as a light breeze rolls off of the bayou. Spanish moss drips from the ancient oak trees reminding her of the lace curtains she just purchased.
The silver mist curls its way around the courtyard. She can hear the moans of the poor lost souls that are trapped in the mist. The moon has a ring around it promising rain soon. The misty halo creates an eerie glow across the earth, bathing the area in a pale light.
Lately, she is afraid to wander the grounds. The beauty of the night seems to have been taken from her. All that seems to remain in this place she loves for so long is death and evil. If only she could see where the evil lurks, she could warn someone. But no, all she can do is sense its presence. She can hear its raspy breath and smell the fetid odor that comes from its flesh and blood.
She must warn Bridgette of the evil that lurks these grounds before it is too late.