Lucifer Travels-Book #1 in the suspense, mystery thriller

by Malik Will

The next day, I awoke about 8 a.m. Once again, I was greeted by the smell of coffee and biscuits. I entered the kitchen, happily, my face held captive by euphoric grins, only to be received by alarmed looks.

  It was Mr. Gaines, as usual, along with my mom and Sheriff Hollis. They gawked at me as if I had made some foul joke they’d all found offensive.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  “Yes, there is,” said Mom.

  She walked closer to me while keeping both hands interlocked at her stomach. Her face vacant, her eyes squinted as if she was trying to see something that wasn’t there. “What the hell were you doing at Angola?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “DON’T YOU LIE TO ME!”

  Sheriff Hollis interrupted. “I got a cousin who works there. Now last night, he gives me a call saying a young kid was down there questioning the nigger who killed your sister. Now that’s a mighty fine coincidence, if you ask me, son.”

  “I ain’t your son, deputy.”

  “It’s Sheriff,” he said as if he was insulted.

  “They let you become sheriff? HA! Well even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then.”

  “You watch your tone,” said Mom. “Now, what where you doing there?”

  I couldn’t answer. My mind grew distant, tangled in sins—both mine and his. I couldn’t tell her because, in truth, I didn’t know why. It just felt like a place I needed to be.

  “Boy, he ain’t gone give you no answers about your sister,’ she said. “We’ve tried that already!”

  “It’s because you sought answers to the wrong questions.”

  “What are you saying, Danny?”

  “I’m saying...he didn’t do it. He didn’t kill Caroline.”

  “Have you lost your mind!” screamed Hollis.

  “Why on earth would you say such a thing?” asked Mom.

  “He has been found guilty in a court of law,” Mr. Gaines added. “How can you refute that?”

  “Because he saved my life!”

  The room became still, locked in place as their befuddled mouths opened.

  “Who saved your life?” asked Mom.

  “He did.”

  “Who is he? What on earth are you talking about?!”

  “Him! C.J! The colored man! He saved me, okay! He saved me!”

  My mother, weakened by my words, pulled a chair and sat.

  “A few years back, I was lost and alone,” I said. “Before I even knew his name, that so-called murderer shielded me from a very dangerous man. He protected me when he didn’t have to. For that, I owe him the same.”

  The room hushed; their faces were awed and bewildered at my words.

  “I’ll be back by supper.” I walked to the front door.

  But Mr. Hollis, a man who has never been lost for words, stopped me in my tracks and left me with words that I have carried with me ever since. “Danny, you know the devil can be many things. Just don’t ever let him become you.”

  I provided the room with one final, contrived, smile and closed the door, leaving to find out more about the night my sister went missing. The destination was Cane River.

  Cane River is a special place. Anytime someone goes there, it births this sense of journey, as if was a new place, different from Natchitoches. But it isn’t. It’s only a few miles down the road from my Momma’s house. Though there’s a reason why this sentiment is common.

  Centuries before us, Cane River was a place, rich with culture, where natives both lived and harvested, creating in their own community, free from war and calamity, until a raging surge of a European Superpower conquered this very place.

  Today, the blood of both slaves and Indians muddle this land. The homes they themselves help create, stand atop of their graves as they mimic those in Spain and France. But the seeds of their history still lie apparent.

  The sounds of accordions and washboards, along with songs that are reminiscent to Indian prayer chants echo from one side of the river to the other.

  The people themselves even seem different. Many fair-skinned blacks frequent this area. The history of war and slavery has long since been jotted across their awkward eyes.

  Mrs. Sherroh, one of the state’s key witnesses, lived in this very place. It didn’t take long to find her. The music served as a guide directly to her front yard where several half colored folk laughed and danced, raucously. Along with the music, they chanted this common phrase in creole over and over again, “Fe ke to regne vini.”

  I was later told it means, “Your kingdom come.”

  In the midst of all the dancing and singing, it was hard to find her face in the crowd. I knew who she was even though we’d never actually met. She knew my father for years. In fact, he worked for her father and her father’s father when he was young.

  Everybody knew everybody in Natchitoches. Even if somehow you didn’t, you had to know Mrs. Sherroh. She was always in someone’s business. I wasn’t surprised one bit when they said she was a witness. That decrepit bat never went inside. She could probably tell you who killed Jesus.

  I found her sitting happily on the porch draped in a wide purple plush dress as she bobbed her head to percussion drums. I made my way up the walkway to the porch, and stopped at the bottom of the steps. I figured it rude to walk up without being invited. I waved my hands. The music, fierce and rumbling, was too loud to talk over.

  She took notice and gestured for me to walk up. So I did. She immediately recognized me. “You’re Cindy’s boy,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s me.”

  “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to speak with you about a private matter.”

  “Oh, of course. Come on in!” She rose from her rocking chair, slow, using a wooden cane to assist her.

  Inside her house, near the door, lay six wooden sticks in the shape of a hexagon. I nearly tripped trying to step over them.

  “Would you like some coffee or lemonade?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Have a seat.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I must ask, what is the significance of those sticks?”

  She smiled in a mocking manner as if the question itself was absurd. “Child, that ain’t nothing to worry about. There hasn’t been a sighting of the rougarou in years. It’s just some precaution is all.”

  “You mean the Loup-garu—the wolf?”

  “Mmm hmmm.”

  I had heard those tales since I was a child. My mom used the story of the Loup-garu to scare me and Caroline from staying outside too late. Legend has it that during the French and Indian wars, Father Augustin Beatrice and his two daughters were attacked in the middle of the night by wild men who moved like beasts. The father and his family were left for dead, but survived. Under the care of a local man who professed to be a healer, their condition worsened. Soon, they began to grow hair in odd places all over their body and their teeth honed into those of a canine. Then one day, the townspeople noticed that the healer, the priest, and his two daughters had vanished into thin air. The townspeople, devout in their religion, lauded these events as evidence of witchery and that the healer had used his powers to transform the priest and his daughters into wolves. After this, several others have claimed to have seen them lurking in the woods. Thus, the term Loup-garu was formed. Loup, meaning wolf, and garu, meaning manlike creature, or, as we call it today, a werewolf.

  “Now what is it you wanted to talk about?” Mr. Sherroh asked.

  “My sister.”

  “Oh, child. It’s a pity what happened to her. You have my condolences. I am truly sorry.”

  “Me to. Me to. But I have a few questions about the night you saw them.”

  “Questions? Well, son, I told the sheriff all I knew.”

  “I know. I’m just looking for closure is all. She’s all I had.”

  She shook her head in pity. “What would you like to know?”

  “You said they were arguing here by the river that night she disappeared.”
<
br />   “Oh yes! They were right outside.”

  “Where outside?”

  She pointed to the left side of the room. “He looked angry too.”

  “Who?”

  “That colored fella.”

  “Do you remember what they were arguing about?”

  “I couldn’t make it out. These ears don’t work like they use to. But whatever it was, it was important. She kept trying to hand him some notepaper, but he wouldn’t take it. That’s when your sister stormed off. And that was it. That’s the last I saw her.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff this?”

  “Yes, I did. But I guess he ain’t figured it to be important. Plus, they never could find that note.”

  “They said that?”

  “Yeah. Maybe my old eyes was fooling me. I don’t know.”

  I sat thinking about that note for a moment. The one that they couldn’t find, had been in my possession for years, untouched. Now it’s only use is a reminder of how life sometimes works.

  “You okay, child?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. There is, however, another person I would like to talk to by the name of Mabile Rioux. She lives here as well. You know her?”

  “Well, I did. But she’s been dead close to a year now.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yep. Poor thing had a stroke out there in the heat mowing that grass. I don’t why she was out there. She got two big ’ol brutes for sons. Seems a bit weird to me.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Sherroh.” I rose from the sofa.

  “You’re welcome, sugar. I wish I could’ve been of more help. I should have known when I first saw him.”

  “It ain’t your fault, Mrs. Sherroh. It ain’t nobody’s fault. Sometimes life just has its ways, and ain’t nothing nobody can do about that.”

  “I guess so. By the way, sugar, while you’re over there, can you fix those sticks back like they were?”

  “Sure.”

  I must’ve moved them out of place by accident. Legend has it that in order for it to work, the sticks must be in the shape of a perfect hexagon. So, of course, I fixed them back. “There ya go. All fixed.”

  “Thank you, honey.”

  After walking out of that house, I just smiled. That’s all I could do. This lady, the person whose accounts were the state’s biggest reason for arresting that man, was still afraid of the Loup-Garu.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Test the Spirits to See