A Grimoire Dark

by D. S. Quinton

  The sinking path that doubled as a road disappeared into the muck of the swamp just beyond the shack. They rounded the last curve of the swamp-road.

  The shack was built on spindly legs of pine poles that had been driven into the soft ground, elevating the shack five feet above the ground. A gangplank of mismatched boards surrounded the shack in a sort of wraparound walkway. Near the front door the gangplank widened into something nearly like a porch that held a few odd chairs and was covered by a flimsy roof of rusted tin, supported by a scaffolding of boards and cables. The porch and gangplank held a myriad of miscellaneous items: gator skulls on high stakes facing in all directions; a string of Christmas lights that held a few old towels, a fish stringer and several small animal skulls hanging from twine, and a doghouse occupied by a family of raccoons.

  A carpet of moss, leaves and branches covered the roof of the shack, which Del would have thought was abandoned except for a small curl of smoke that snaked its way out of a leaning piece of tin pipe protruding through the roof.

  The area around the shack held the remnants of a life spent bartering, including an old truck piled with junk that was more in the swamp than out of it.

  The time of day was lost to the murk and the fog-rain cast a dusky hue that hinted at a foreboding night to come. A strange sensation of movement emanated from the swamp as it pulsed from an unseen light source.

  As they stepped out of the car, they realized the mysterious pulsing came from dozens of mirrors that hung from tree branches, slowly twisting in the dank air, reflecting the ghostly scene in all directions.

  “Hallo!” Frank called out as he ascended the steps to the gangplank porch. “Anyone ho—”

  He stopped short as the working end of a double-barreled shotgun poked out of the front door.

  “Whoa now! It’s da police,” he said, holding up his wallet and expired badge. “Did someone call in a body?”

  The shotgun disappeared and the door swung open. A grizzled hand waved for them to come in.

  Frank poked his head inside the doorway as he knocked on the open door, waving at Del to stay behind him.

  “Da door’s open ain’t it? Yeah…” said a voice from inside the shack.

  Frank and Del stepped through the door of the shack and into the world of Blind Loo’siana Slim.

  The grizzled old man sat in a rocker near a small pot-bellied stove. The shotgun rested across the arms of the rocker as he hummed a low tune that was barely audible.

  Del drank in the strange scene in front of her. Here, in and old shack in the middle of the swamp, was a man dressed in his Sunday best. Slim sported worn, but pressed wool trousers, a white dress shirt made of heavy cotton, and a Bolo tie with an Onyx stone set in silver. The blue-mirrored lenses of his 1940s-style tortoise-shell sunglasses hid his eyes, but imbued his face with an air of deep knowledge and an odd sophistication. His alligator skin boots were polished to a high shine and drove a slow, hypnotic rocking against lightly creaking floorboards.

  “Afternoon, sir. Name of Frank Morgan. Did you call in a dead body?”

  “‘Frank Morgan’ you say? Alright… name of Slim. Loo’siana Slim. Yeah…” He rocked his head to a silent beat.

  “Who’s dat behind ya? Come up so I can hear ya,” said Slim.

  “Good afternoon sir, I’m Delphine Larouche.”

  “DELL-phine… yeah… das ol’ name.” At this, Slim set the shotgun aside and fumbled for a guitar leaning against the wall. Producing a glass slide seemingly from thin air he started picking out an old Delta Blues riff with haunting slide notes, and slowly sang.

  “Del-phine / Del-phine / doan liiiiie to me / tell me wheerrre’d you sleep las’ night?

  “In da pines / in da pines / where da suuunn doa’never shine,

  “I shiverrrr da ho’ night through...”

  Setting the guitar across the arms of the chair Slim said, “Yeah… das ol’ name…”

  Frank and Del exchanged glances as Slim’s mirrored glasses stared off into a space somewhere to their left. He continued rocking slowly, mouthing the words, Del-phine, Del-phine…

  Frank coughed. “About da body—”

  “Come fer da body, didja?” Slim interrupted. “Bes’ to let it lie, but I doan think the swamp want it back, you unerstan’, yeah…” His head lolled into a lazy figure-eight pattern at a slow four-four time.

  “Shoulda left it alone myself, but doan wan’ dat soul hangin’ roun you unerstan’… no… doan wan’ dat hangin’ roun atall…”

  “Excuse me for asking, sir,” Del said, “but how did you find it… I mean, if you’re—”

  “Blind, you mean? Yeah, my eyes went out a long time ago, but dat’s NOT da only way to see, you unerstan’… not da only way…”

  Del exchanged another questioning glance with Frank, only to turn back and see the mirrored blue lenses staring straight at her.

  “I heard it, you see. Woke da other night wit a powerful fear. Laid still as da dead, listenin’ you unerstan… yeah… den I heard it.”

  “Heard what?” asked Frank.

  “I heard da most terrible, awful murder you can imagine!”

  Del’s pulse climbed at the thought of her first breaking story.

  “Murder? Why you say dat?” Frank asked. “I thought we had a case of a gator ‘tack?”

  “Heh… if so, dat no gator you wanna find, no… My grann’on come to check on me yesterday and found me in bed, still as da dead. Thought I’d passed o’er in the night, but when he shook me, I bolt up like a demon, ya unerstan! I was in a trance or somethin’. Had to go deep in my head, in a song, you unerstan, when I heard da murder. Had to fill my head, so he couldn’t find me.”

  “Not following you,” Frank said. “So who couldn’t find you?”

  “Doan ask me to say da name. I woan say it! And you’d be best not to even think it. Leave dat body to da swamp. I’ll deal wit da soul if it come ‘round.”

  Del listened intently to the strange story, but thought there must be something wrong with the shack. She felt as if it were moving slightly under her feet, swaying so subtly that her conscious mind couldn’t detect it, but her subconscious could. She felt the slightest wave of dizziness flush up her neck as her stomach started to turn sideways.

  “Well, that’s part of da job you see. I been sent out here to investigate a dead body, and that’s what I aim to do. I understand if you don’t want to see it. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll take care of it,” Frank said.

  Slim rocked in silence, contemplating the two. His tortoise-shell sunglasses playing a trick of observing both Frank and Del at the same time.

  “If I tell you, doan go gettin’ lost. And DOAN be folleren no fifolets, you unerstan! I doan need no more lost souls out here then they already are!”

  “Fifolet?” asked Del with a smirk. “What’s that?”

  Slim smacked his lips apart in disgust and adjusted in his rocker as his head rocked from side to side.

  “Girl, you in Jean Lafitte swamp, you unerstan. Lotsa lost souls in da swamps, but this one is bad fer it, yeah…

  “A fifolet is a lost spirit. Show up like a light… Blue light, Green light maybe, just floatin’ off da path in da woods a way.

  “DOAN FOLLER IT, you unerstan! No… People believe da fifolets lead ‘em to treasure, cause ol’ Cap’n Lafitte used to bury his treasure, then kill a slave o’er da treasure hole to protect it. But it’s a trick, don’t you know. Yeah, lotsa tricky things in da swamp.

  “I saw one once when I was a piss-ant. Me and my little cousin was diggin’ worms, not watchin’ da sun and it got late. Purty soon my cuz’ just started walkin’ into da woods. I said ‘Hey girl, where you goin’?’ and she said, ‘To catch dat fairy,’ and I looked up and Lawd there it was, floatin’ away all shimmerin’ and lonesome. Didn’t make no sound, but I could… feel it, you unerstan, yeah…

  “Da fifolet… it’ll just lead you on an on, just ‘round another tree, then…” holding up his hand
s, “you just be gone.”

  Del shuffled from one foot to the other. Being raised in a church orphanage, she was not only taught the fear of God, but a bit about false idols and pagan beliefs. She knew how seriously Creoles took their legends, so she didn’t want to say that she didn’t believe in children’s spook stories.

  Frank cleared his throat through the cigar side of his mouth. “If you doan mind, I still need to look around.”

  Slim rocked, as if in a trance, for several seconds, then said, “Take da walkin’ path, other side da road, pass an ol’ chicken coop. Grann’on says it’s just beyond.”

  Del spoke up. “You mean past all of the mirrors? Why are they out there?”

  “Heh, you doan know nothin’ bout da swamp, missy. Those mirrors all aroun’ da house. They keep da Devil at bay, you unerstan… He’s so vain, when he comes to take ol’ Slim away, he’ll stop and gaze at himself in those mirrors, purty soon, he get confused and forget how to find ol’ Slim, yeah… then he go on his way.”

  The only response Del had was to wrinkle the side of her mouth and give a silent hmpphh through her nose.

  “Doan sass me girl,” Slim said, staring straight at her again. “I can hear you mighty young, yeah… mighty young… but there are things in this world dat gris alone cain’t han’el. And you mind those things, you unerstan…”

  “OK, Slim. It was nice meetin’ you. We’ll be on our way, but I do have one more question,” Frank said.

  Slim’s mirrored glasses watched him closely.

  “What makes you say murder? I ‘spect there was a lot of screamin’. Horrible way to die, getting et up by a gator, but did you hear something to make you think it was murder?”

  “Course I did. I heard da talkin’.”

  “What talkin’?”

  “After I woke wit da fear, I heard two voices. First, I thought it was some drunks a fightin’. There was all sorts ah thrashin’ and carryin’ on.

  “Drunks fightin?” Frank asked. “Out here? You pretty far out for neighbors disputin’.”

  “They all types that live out here. Yeah… all types. But when da screamin’ started, I knew some bad was bein’ done. Da voices was all mixed up at first with other sounds. Lotsa splashin’, jus’ like you hear a gator do when he’s eatin’, tail a slappin’ da water, rollin’ over and over, but then da screamin’ and hollerin’ started from da one voice.”

  “And then?” Frank asked.

  “An’ then I heard da other voice. It was growlin’… and laughin’.”

  Chapter 6

  ‘Six-finger’ Eddie Bartlett awoke from his binge coma with a smashing headache. His mouth tasted like cigarette ashes and his pasty face looked like it had been used for the ashtray; pock-marked with splotchy red acne scars. The acne made little difference to Eddie’s overall appearance; tall and gangly, his body was not coordinated enough for sports; thin and protruding, the bridge of his nose arched like a beak; his oversized Adam’s apple made him look even skinnier than he was; and his bushy red eyebrows called to mind a lost tribe of Irish Neanderthal, or at least a problem of inbreeding.

  He opened one eye to identify the room he was sleeping in. He was pretty sure it wasn’t his apartment. Freddie Blue’s pad? Yeah, maybe. Wherever he was, it stank like three-day-old wet laundry, mildewy and pungent. And the couch was itching him.

  Feeling as if he had melted into the sofa pillow, he raised his head and realized that he had excreted so much sweat the night before, he had soaked the pillow. The mildewy smell was him.

  Sitting up nearly caused him to black out as a wave of blood rushed through his head and caused his eyes to flash. Holding his head in his hands, he let the wave of dizziness pass and tried his eyes again.

  Nice bender, dickweed. Get your shit straight, man.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Eddie said to the room. “Clean up my act, blah, blah.” Where’s the coffee, Freddie Blue?

  Eddie slumbered to the small kitchenette, holding chairs for guidance and balance as his eyesight kept flashing with the change in blood pressure.

  Sloshing coffee into a cup, he leaned against the counter and observed the dim apartment through despondent eyes. Sometimes shit just doesn’t work out, but a real man just soldiers on. Whatever.

  Gagging on the cold coffee, Eddie said, “What the fuck, Freddie, no hot Java my friend?” What time is it?

  Looking around the small apartment, he spied a wall clock. “Oh shit! Ten-thirty?” You’re fucked dude. Kiss that job goodbye.

  He scratched at his neck and chest. Fucking bedbugs, Freddie. Something’s in your couch man.

  As resignation settled over him to another lost job, he sat down at the small kitchen table. Just stop drinkin’, dude!

  Yeah, I’m going to think about that.

  After choking down the rest of the coffee, Eddie saw the note left for him on the table:

  * * *

  Ed, get your shit straight man. You broke the key in my lock last night and I think you stepped on your guitar. No more floppin here til you clean up.

  F—

  * * *

  And take a shower. You stink!

  “Whatever man!”

  Eddie shuffled back to the couch looking for his guitar case. Please tell me I didn’t step on it. Please, please…

  Lying next to the couch, the flimsy black guitar case foretold a dire tale. A shoe-sized indention could be seen at the headstock. Quickly opening the lid, Eddie saw that two tuning pegs had been broken off, which meant unknown damage had been done to the neck. The guitar, his real passion and lifeblood, was unplayable.

  “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Man, not this…”

  Slapping himself hard to emphasize each word, he sat on the floor and cried, “Get!” slap… “Your!” slap… “Shit!” slap… “Straight!” SLAP.

  After several minutes lying on the floor, Eddie scratched his neck and chest again.

  “Fucking BEDBUGS!!”

  Stumbling his way into the bathroom, he turned the shower on hot and stripped off his stinking clothes. Looking in the mirror had always been painful. If he just wasn’t so damned ugly, things would have been better for him. Totally unfair, he thought as he pushed at his springy red hair. Other dudes had it way easier in the world. Hell, some of the guys were only on stage because they had a great face and decent voice. Some even had shitty voices, but they still had better luck than he did. Fucking stars where shining on someone else the day he was born.

  He looked down, flexing his pecs, but only saw his ribs. He was surprised at how skinny he had become. Need a good woman to fatten me up, he thought as he pulled his taut skin from his ribs.

  He looked back in the mirror and slapped himself hard again. He watched as tears formed on his lower eyelids.

  You’re gonna let the music slip away. There’s talent there, you know that. You could make it! It would be a shame to throw that away. A damn shame.

  “No, it would be a sin,” he said to himself in the mirror.

  Stepping into the steaming water, he felt a modicum of stress leave his body. After drying, he stood in front of the mirror again, inspecting his itchy neck and chest.

  Now what? he thought.

  Reflected in the mirror, crimson against his pasty skin, was a bright red rash, starting on the left side of his chest and snaking its way up his neck. These are not bug bites, Eddie thought.

  It looked like a pattern.

  Sharon Frobije walked down Rue Blvd to the corner of Rue and St. Jean. She kept her head down, but was scanning the sidewalk from inside her hood. Her raincoat served two purposes: shield her head from the rain, and shield her face from anyone who may recognize her. Usually wearing sunglasses—she thought they would draw unwanted attention on a day like this—she worried about showing her distinctive, multi-colored eyes. She walked quickly on.

  She hadn’t worked this part of town for a while—how long she couldn’t remember—but it always paid to be cautious. She entered the old family convenience store and scanned it
s inhabitants: a young clerk stocking cigarettes behind the counter, an old couple comparing the price of soup cans, someone in the back talking on the phone.

  Sharon made her way towards the old couple and started browsing. When opportunity presents itself, she thought.

  Leaning around the woman to grab a soup can with one hand, Sharon bumped into them both as her other hand slipped into the woman’s purse.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Sharon said. “I’m ever so sorry. Clumsy me.” She smiled politely and walked down the aisle with her can of soup and the lady’s wallet.

  Hearing the voice still engaged in its conversation, she browsed the next aisle while watching the clerk over the top shelf. The soup can and several other items fell into her large purse without a sound.

  She casually walked toward the counter and asked for a pack of Camels. The bright-faced clerk set them on the counter, but before he could ring the sale, Sharon grabbed his hand with the pack in them. She looked at the cigarettes then back to him, making an obscene gesture with her mouth and raising her eyebrows in question. The blushing, stuttering clerk looked mortified. She rolled her eyes, dropped thirty-five cents on the counter, and walked out.

  Back at her house, Sharon realized she was late. Her noon appointment would be there soon. She ran into her bedroom and checked her appointment list: Séance – Dead husband, the note read.

  Stripping off her coat and blonde wig, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She ran her hands through her red hair and bent forward, fluffing it slightly, and flung her head back. The natural bounce didn’t disappoint, and she thought back to her high school graduation picture. A schoolteacher is what she had wanted to be; she was one of the smarter in her class after all. Where things went wrong she could no longer remember, but what a string of bad luck she’d had. The fling with the married professor had been blown way out of proportion, unfairly labeling her until she had to drop out of her sophomore year of college. She was shocked at the fallout; they were adults after all, and she couldn’t help it if he didn’t like his wife.