The Portrait

Holliday stood before the portrait of her ancestor, the formidable matriarch who had ruled her family with an iron hand, taking no prisoners whenever anyone had dared to voice their dissension. The artist had captured the very essence of the woman, her cold eyes penetrating the soul of any who stood before her, anyone except Holliday.

She was not like the rest of them. Holliday not only looked like Olivia, she also exhibited her forbearer’s traits. Perhaps, a reincarnation, if there was such a thing. And Holliday was feared just as Olivia had been feared, a woman without scruples, an embodiment of pure evil.

The family fortune had been squandered over the years by errant male heirs, gambling and whoring away their lives after having sired the coveted son. Holliday was the end of a line, the sole survivor of a dynasty that had ruled the bayou for centuries. She had inherited the house, a mansion by today’s standards, the remnants of a glorious estate from a bygone era.

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