Apparently closing my eyes, clicking my heels and wishing to be in the place I felt safest, did not send me home like it ought to. Instead I found myself in a darkened foyer of a plantation house, confused and disoriented beyond belief. My head spun as the room came into complete focus. It was impressive, really impressive. The Bellefleur's would be more roasted than a pig on a backyard spit if they saw this place - and that was just the foyer.

"Sweet Jesus, Shepherd of Judah, where am I?" When I actually tried to wish myself out of a bad situation, I didn't think for one minute that'd it work. Well, damn, I was more capable then I thought. Or rather, Amelia was more capable; she was the one who told me what to do if I was in dire straights. Clamp down on the talisman, shut your eyes and pull a Dorthy on the spot. I did, and shit if it didn't work perfectly. But, where was I now?

'I should be grateful' I thought. Wherever I was, it wasn't near danger. My breathing had steadied and I felt eerily calm. So calm in fact that my heart rate was jacking itself back up. My brief moment of peace didn't last, 'that's not normal.' It's sad to think that feeling calm and safe wasn't a regular state in my life. I sighed and decided I better explore a bit if I wanted to figure out where I was. Perhaps there'd be a delivery pizza number on the fridge with an area code that could point me in the right direction? Or an address by the telephone that would tell me what parish I was in. If I was still in Louisiana for that matter. I hoped to god I was.

Feeling slightly childish, I took of my flats and tip-toed across the wide-paneled wooden floors in the direction of what I'd hoped was the kitchen. I was right; a left off of the main hallway and into the huge room I stepped. It looked as if it hadn't been remodeled in 200 years, complete with a massive brick mantel over the hearth and a dutch oven built in - not to mention a pie-safe in the corner. I almost cried it felt so homey, and wished I hadn't lost Gran's pie-safe in the fire that destroyed my own kitchen. This is the kind of room 'Garden and Gun' jumped at the chance of using for a photo spread in their holiday issue. All I could do was ogle and pine for a family and a time that no longer existed.

I snapped myself out of the mixture of awe and self pity I was feeling and walked over to the fridge. Nope, nothing on it, I then checked around the counters for the requisite kitchen phone, except there was none. How odd. Who didn't have a phone in their kitchen? There was also no coffee maker. A huge strike against whoever owned the house. Coffee was a staple in my diet, but maybe these people liked tea? I didn't find tea as I searched the huge walk-in pantry that led off of the kitchen, but there was a rather narrow and inviting staircase in the back. "This must be the servants staircase," I figured. Of course back in plantation times, they wouldn't walk up the grand stairs in the main hall. I shook my head at how ridiculous some old costumes were as I took the stairs two at a time, heading up into the heart of the house.

It spilled out onto a back hallway that lead out to the main landing. I followed the runner carpet and the elegant pattern it made with my eyes as I walked. It felt soft on my feet and a warm sensation swept over me. For some reason, this entire exploration of a stranger's home made me feel completely at ease and happy. I figured I was finally loosing it and made a mental note to call a therapist the second I got back home. If I ever did.

"No need to think about that now" I said to myself, since I was feeling so curious and comfortable at the same time, I peeked inside the first door that caught my eye. It was on my left and was hidden from the setting sun, whose rays were now streaking across the floor below, through the uneven glass on the side of the front door. It made the wood look golden and the glass glowed with the tangerine light. If anything I figured it was probably around 6PM, and that counted for something. I shrugged and opened the door with a gentle push.

I didn't know what I expected exactly when I walked into the room off of the landing, but I'm assuming it wasn't what I saw. A massive four poster bed, complete with lace hangings over the canopy and the most glorious quilt draped over the bed I'd ever seen. No one had set foot in this room for quiet a while. I don't know how I knew, but I could tell. The room reeked, Southern Elegance, save one little detail; a wall hanging of a wool blanket, or what looked like a wool blanket. I didn't recognize the patterns, though the abstract designs felt homey as well. Just a different kind of home, one that felt like the... Christmas? There was a wreath of unlit hand-dipped candles set below it, on a low dresser. Hmm... odd. It brought a smile to my face nonetheless.

I again wished for my Gran, she'd love to walk around this house, feeling the history seeping from its walls. Was I at Mt. Vernon? Or maybe Castle Hill? I took back my assumption from before, this mustn't be a plantation house, it was an estate. I peeked my head out the door and counted the doors off the landing. Eight. And that was before the hall curved off of the main foyer and deeper into the house. Lordy.

Well now this was fun! My happy and content mood turned to giddy as I shut the door as quietly as possible and tip-toed to the next. I, for the life of me didn't know why I was sneaking about, but I was enjoying it. This was probably what Maria felt like as she searched the Von Trapp's house for the first time; except there were no Nazi's in Louisiana. At least I hoped there weren't - was I still in Louisiana?

Three doors down I came upon a study, or I guess it could be a study and a library combined? There were so many shelves of books lining the walls, I wondered who would ever own so many. Maybe I was wrong before, this could be Monte Cello? Thomas Jefferson was famous for being a quiet soul who read a lot and played violin. I knew about the violin thanks to the only musical that I'd ever seen live; 1776. My favorite bit was the violin playing, and darnit if the actor playing ol' Tom wasn't a cuttie! I mentally slapped myself. Of course this wasn't the estate of a former president, or of a famous Southern Belle - there'd be people around if it were! I decided I must be light headed from a lack of food mixed with my disorientation, and that was responsible for my flighty mood. I tried to rally my questionable sanity as I walked over to the bookshelves.

I was bending over the nearest shelf, trying to read the cover of one of its volumes when a creak from the door behind me made me jump. At that same moment I realized that the books on the shelves were in some sort of language that I'd certainly never heard spoken. Some, thankfully were in English and the book on Nordic mythology tipped me off. The book next to it simply titled "Freyja" made my heart skip a beat. Oh no..... oh, no.

"Sookie..." An all too familiar voice said behind me. I froze mid jump.




This was the first story I'd ever written using someone else's characters. It was strangely liberating, cause of a the ground work was already laid down for me.

Hopefully y'all will like it.

p.s. I got a PM asking about my 'other story'. This is it. :-) Enjoy!