It would be an engaging predicament had this all been popcorn movie fare. The audience would be leaning forward right about now with suspenseful anticipation, waiting for the miraculous moment of triumph in the midst of an emotional clash. Unfortunately there's no camera lighting or any director's clapboard to ease my own tension as my mind slowly awakens wondering in which poor soul's tome I am buried. I can taste the wretched air in my lungs, so I can only assume that I am still breathing; though whatever mystery toxin is pulsing through my veins, along with my blood, has yet worn off enough for me to feel the heave of my lungs, let alone allow me to move an arm or two to connect my imagination with the sense of touch, gaining some visual interpretation of my dark prison.

I remember my childhood, like anyone threatened with a slow demise would surely do. I remember Edgar Alan Poe's Cask of Amontillado, and the genuine anxiety of wondering how one would react had they been sealed alive. I wonder no longer.

My father was claustrophobic. Luckily, that trait of his was mutated to a subtler vice before being passed along to my own genetic quirks. I merely have control issues; and as I look back, wondering how this scenario could have gone differently, I reprimand myself for letting this trait get the best of me.

But what can I say? It's the city. She does things to me like no other. I have conquered Philadelphia and its occult underground, ripe with mystery and illumination, where certain streets fill the night with magic quicker than other streets fill with crime. I have conquered New York and its refactored beatnik counterculturalites - the too cool for mainstream crew that fight with their dreaming life from day to day. I have even conquered the demons inside of me, leaving just those that help to make things… interesting. But New Orleans is different. The city penetrates you with a culture out of time - one that should not exist in a country so young. She treats me like a child, and I act accordingly, lovingly looking for her attention. She is my Ishtar. She is my Kali. And if I must die tonight because of our embrace, let it come. I would trade it for nothing.

When one arrives in New Orleans, one does so freshly each time the plane touches the ground; each moment in time carriers a different atmosphere with it; each footstep rings a different sound. There is no plainness. There is no monotony. So much happens in this city, unbeknownst to the casual wanderer. Those who have lived here long enough walk with a certain gleam in their eye. They know; and they know that you don't. Walking the streets of New Orleans as an artist, a writer, or an occultist, you get the feeling that you are an outsider among outsiders… but you always have this strange feeling that you are home.

I was brought to this city by the memory of an old acquaintance: Jamal. The murder of even one that you haven't seen in nearly a decade is enough to boil your blood with the spirit of vengeance soaking through to your soul. A truer translation of the Old Testament reveals to us that thou shalt not murder, and I agree whole-heartedly… But I'm not above killing a man. Unfortunately, a whisper upon the wind told me that I might not have the first right to. Jamal's ancestry ran through the South, I had found - all the way to New Orleans.

I have no desire to step on the toes of the Voodoo culture. Their magic is ancient, and they call upon their guiding Loa's like one would call upon an older brother. Their familiarity with the spirit world is beyond uncanny. Still, I wasn't without a few calling cards to the great beyond of my own, and I was hoping to call in a few favors in the material world, as well, to get me in the right place at the right time.

Marabella was one of the most beautiful women you could meet in New Orleans. Her half Spanish, half African ancestry played gently with her features, making you wonder if you had indeed discovered the secret design of all of God's plans. I had met her in an occult bookstore on Philadelphia's South Street several years prior. She was frantically questioning the store clerk for the whereabouts of a Houngan. Her brother had fallen into an epileptic fit, and her trust of scientific medicine went out the window the same time her mother did - jumping from a fifth floor balcony while on prescribed Prozac.

Marabella, upon realizing that the bookstore clerk was not going to be much help, stormed from the store with flaring emotional outburst. I followed.

It took some fine words and an insinuating smile to pry my way into Marabella's private life, but I soon found myself face-to-face with her epileptic brother - eyes glazed over with a demonic stare. The thought of that day brings goose bumps to my skin. Much of that day remains a distinct blur - an emptiness injected into my soul to protect my fragile human mind, I suppose. I do remember her gratitude as she clung to me - a little child grateful for the return of her tree-trapped cat - as I heaved blackened blood from my lungs and slowly recuperated from the stinging gouges on my arms and chest. Her brother lied silently, relaxed and breathing steadily on the bed. The exertion of the exorcism was too much to allow for an exciting family reunion.

Marabella now worked in a small coffee shop on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. She moved there shortly after her brother's exorcism in order to be closer to her religious heritage. I had only walked through the door for a scant three seconds before she hopped the counter and wrapped me in her arms. Nostalgia swarmed over me. Rarely in life do I feel an appreciative embrace… not with what I do. We sat down at a half-cleaned booth in the farthest corner, and I told her my tale… and my intentions.

"I always new you were crazy Never. I'll say that much," she said.

"But you can do this, right? I'm not asking for anything more than to just be there."

"There's a gathering this weekend. Come back in three days, and I'll have your answer. Don't hold your breath though."

"Thank you, Mara."

I rose from the table and kissed Marabella on her soft cheek.

Walking home, I lost myself in the cool breeze of the air and jazz music floating from bar to bar. Enough revenge. Enough favors. I needed some time with an empty mind to heal the scars of my soul. After all, more were to come.

I stood in the back of the congregation, trying not to look any more out of place than I already did. It was everything Marabella could do to get me here. She'll owe favors to random people for years to come. I tried not to let my eyes dart about too much during the ceremony. I kept them focused on the peristyle. The chants of the scrawny middle-aged Houngan seemed to echo off of walls that weren't there. His voice penetrating even the most closed minds, rattling an unsuspecting brain like three peanuts in a barrel - all that empty space making you realize how small you were in this enormous universe.

The ceremony was beautiful. The ground, laced with intricately drawn veves, was a sacred place teeming with ancient magic and energy. My head swarmed from the overload of sensory input: the beautiful colors and dances; the powerful chants and rhythms; the chills up my spin and warm rushes of energy. I almost forgot why I was there... Almost.

I wasn't waiting for a sign, as most people do in a religious ceremony. This was Voodoo. Spirits frequented this sacred place as much as the humans that paid tribute to them. Possession, or mounting, was not uncommon. I was waiting for an answer - distinct and verbal.

After a time - if time every did join in the festivities - my eyes began to stare less at the Houngan performing the ceremony, and more into the space beyond that sacred space - or at least the spaces in between. My vision became polarized - the colors reversing themselves and vibrating with the rhythmic chants. The sounds of the ceremony dulled out to an almost diminished state - the voices of the congregation barely audible. My body swam in the atmosphere around me, while moving very little. At least I didn't think I was moving. By that time, my surroundings had melted into a psychedelic collage of akashic scenes and dreamtime journeys. I struggled with every little ounce of energy left in my being; and as I managed to force one foot forward, I fell to the ground - vision blackening into a bottomless abyss. Before I fell completely into this perceived unconscious state, I managed to distinguish an odd feeling inside myself... It felt like a second soul.

So now here I am - sealed in a tome in a New Orleans cemetery. Alive. Awake. My muscles where twitching as I began to regain feeling in my limbs. The poison wasn't killing me. It was merely a sedative. As I struggled to lift my arms towards the top of the tomb, I was surprised to see the concrete lid moving. Light began to crack through like a saving grace from some holy religious myth. As the lid finished its travel to its now angled position - my eyes adjusting to the light - I saw the face of a young boy staring back at me.

I pulled myself up and over the side of the concrete tomb with help from the thin yet strong arms of this little boy; he could have been no more than twelve years old. I collapsed on the ground next to the tomb, barely able to keep my body sitting upright.

"What happened?" I said.

"You came here seeking answers to questions. You got your answers," he replied.

"I... I don't remember…"

"It's better that you don't. Some things weren't meant for the human mind. Not even yours, Never."

"I... I wanted..."

"Revenge? Sometimes revenge isn't yours to take. Sometimes that privilege belongs to the spirits alone. You know that." He paused briefly, looking over his shoulder at the vast expanse of trees beyond the cemetery before turning back. The little boy flashed me a playful smile. "I have to go now. You should be ok in about an hour. I hope you enjoyed your rest. I thought you would feel most comfortable here."

He turned away. I watched him walk off into the distance towards the dark, brooding woods just beyond the cemetery; but before he could disappear from my sight... he disappeared all together.

I had more to think about on the plane ride home than I cared too. Everything was still a fog, but haunting images returned to me at my most restful moments. I arrived at Philadelphia International Airport at six o'clock in the morning - just late enough to catch an early print of the Sunday edition of the Inquirer. On the back page I caught notice of the most interesting headline:

Wanted Drug Dealer Found Hanged.

In the picture representing the story - a nighttime glimpse of the crime associated street corner where the event took place - I recognized my little friend from the cemetery. It brought a smile to my face as I walked down the airport corridor towards the bus terminal. As I stepped outside, I thought of Jamal... and then I let him go.