Michael felt like he'd entered another world; one back in time; when he stepped through the heavy door. The air appeared to thicken and to close in around him, and to contained particles of smoke, invisible to the naked eye, but its presence able to be inducted. The sound of the entrance bell slowly clanging to a stop, and the noise of the door as it shut behind him, startled the reporter, and forced him further into the shop, where a momentary shiver, as if fingers dipped in ice had been trailed down his spine, caused goose-bumps to break out on his skin.
The Journalist had been so immersed in contemplations of how he'd approach Madame Estelle that as his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and the different quality of light from that of outside, he'd run headfirst into the tendrils of a hanging plant, which felt to him as if a spider scurried across his scalp, and his gaze had alighted on a dried snake, head raised and fangs bared, prepared to strike, in his direct line of sight. Instinctively, his arms had raised to ward off the danger, and he'd stepped back on his heels in the red dust that now coated his shoes to avoid the spider.
Then he'd admonished himself, stupid fucking superstitions, as he recovered his composure and balance, and recognised the dried animal for what it was; the snake had probably been dead for longer than he'd been alive; and that the plant was just a plant. Fortunately, the incident was over in a millisecond and had, he fervently hoped, gone unnoticed. Michael had seen it all before, of course - if one lived it New Orlean's, it could hardly be avoided - but that had been in the market stalls and larger boutiques that lined the main thoroughfares, where the atmosphere wasn't quite as intimate, and he took a moment to appraise the unfamiliar surroundings.
The interior was small and crowded, lit by candles and lamps, with every possible nook and cranny crammed with trinkets, dolls, animal appendages, masks and talismans, and a bevy of customers browsed the merchandise. Tourists or locals? His innate curiosity compelled the questions, and induced him to finger various items, and to even lift some, inquisitive of their purpose, from a resting place for closer examination. The man displayed great care to not knock any of the shelves, or to bump against the cabinets, in case the items should fall and break, as he walked.
With gentle nudges, and touches of the shoulder, Michael weaved his way through the clientele to the rear of the boutique, where he'd noted the figure of what he took to be a woman silhouetted through a partially closed curtain. A stock room, and the mysterious Black Witch, he presumed. The rap of his knuckles on the oak service desk cut through the eerie silence, reminiscent of a library, where people spoke in hushed whispers, when he leaned across the counter, and in a clear, strong voice, called out. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Madame Estelle."
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