Voodoo Queen

The shop was dark compared to the outside where the big, throbbing Louisiana sun fried eggs on sidewalks.
In orange letters, swirling, read ‘VOODOO QUEEN 504-551-1437’ overhead the rotting green door frame. Sarah brushed her khakis down, clutched her Louis Vutton and pushed the door open, a clang of wind chimes pretending to be bells above her head.
The inside of the store smelled damp and alive. Dirt had been dragged through across the rotting wood floor recently. Shrunken heads with surprised expressions and different combinations of collected herbs hung from the ceiling. Sarah, before continuing her journey further into the cluttered shop, peered past to find a pool of light flooding in from above. She walked across the creaking floor to the spot. Sarah’s eyes floated up to the ceiling to see it caved in and as if someone carelessly attempted to band-aid it by covering it up with a sheer piece of fabric.
Sarah cleared her throat, “Madame Papillion?”
“Who dehr?” a troubled voice came from a back room.

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