by Isla Jones
“Look,” she began. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s what happened. I went to check on Zeke. Something attacked me. It didn’t look human, is what I meant, but … it was strong and fast. It almost killed me! And when I ran into Zeke’s room, I found him in the ensuite. He was dead, Sheriff.”
He glanced down at the notepad on the table. “And this creature you say attacked you. It strangled you, yes?”
“Yes.”
“It threw you against the window, and you hit your forehead on the windowpane.”
“No. I hit my head on the windowsill. Then I blacked out.”
“You see,” he said, glancing up at her, “you look just fine to me, Ms Harper. There aren’t any bruises on your neck to support a strangling, and your face is spotless. If you were attacked, you would have something to show for it. Cuts, bruises, broken bones even.”
Blake folded her arms over her chest. “I told you already. A man, Theodore, helped me. I saw him before I fainted, and I woke up this morning in my bed. He must’ve helped me.”
“He healed all of your injuries in one night?” The Sheriff quirked his furry eyebrow. “You’re a bit old to be confusing nightmares with reality, don’t you think?”
“Just check. All you have to do is your job. Go to the Prescott’s house and find Zeke.”
Sheriff Cotton regarded her. After a pause, he stood from the cold metal chair. “I won’t be long.”
Blake lit up with relief. “He’s in the ensuite bathroom at the end of the second-floor corridor.”
“I’m going to make a phone call,” he said.
Blake drooped in her chair and watched him leave.
In the cupboard that passed as an interview room, time dragged by. What felt like an hour had only been fifteen minutes, according to the plastic clock on the beige wall. Before long, she had slumped over the table, rested her forehead on the metal, and tapped her bare foot.
Fifteen minutes turned into half an hour. Blake rose from the chair and began pacing up and down the two-metre length of the room.
Half an hour became forty-five minutes. The Sheriff was taking a long time to make a phone call, she thought.
The window beside the door was hidden by cheap shutter blinds. She shuffled over to the window and hooked her finger on one of the shutters, pulling it down. Through the gap, she peeked out into the hallway of the Sheriff’s office. Her heart stopped as she spotted Sheriff Cotton up the corridor, talking in hushed tones to her dads.
Abe and Jack stood side by side. Abe bit his lip, hugged himself, and looked on the verge of tears. Jack, however, did what he always did when battling an emotional wave—gazed at the ceiling and clenched his jaw. Even over the distance between them, Blake could see the welling tears in Jack’s pained eyes.
Blake released the shutter and crept toward the door. She had to know what they were saying. Quietly, she turned the handle and cracked the door open.
“—not uncommon,” whispered Sheriff Cotton. His voice was deep enough that she heard it through the crack. “Sometimes it can take a while for these things to take root. But it has to be treated before it gets any worse.”
Be treated? Get worse? What on earth was he talking about? Blake frowned and leaned into the gap, straining to hear Abe’s shaky response.
“Her behaviour has changed, Jack. You must admit that. Maybe this is our best option. Even if only for the rest of the year. It’s just a few months, but it could make all the difference to Blake.”
Jack’s irritated voice came: “People don’t have psychotic breaks for no reason, Abe. You’re overreacting. Blake is fine, she just needs us—”
“When the Prescotts passed on,” interrupted the Sheriff, “it wasn’t just their children who suffered. Zeke and Bethany’s loss became the loss of their friends.” Sheriff Cotton lowered his voice, but Blake still heard him. “It seems to me that Blake is overstressed at the moment. Some time away from the town might do her good.” He cleared his throat and added in an awkward tone, “This mental strain she’s suffering might be hereditary—It’s none of my business how much you know about her birth parents, but this could very well run her biological family. Whatever the cause of it might be, it’s clear that your daughter needs help. I can make the call today. They’re the best in the county.”
Jack exhaled, and shook his head. “I don’t know, Abe. It’s extreme—”
“So is Blake reporting murders and zombies to the Sheriff,” snapped Abe. She sensed that he was on the verge of a sobbing fit. “She’s been sneaking out, making up stories, getting involved with Wolf business, and disobeying us, Jack. I don’t know what to do with her. This isn’t like Blake. We need to address whatever’s going on with her before it spirals out of control. Clearly she can’t cope anymore. Harmony is our best option, Jack.”
Blake’s eyes bulged as her breath caught in her throat. Harmony? They couldn’t mean Harmony’s Institute for Troubled Youth! Her dads would never send her there. They would never agree to it.
Jack, bowing his head, whispered; “Ok.”
Blake blinked.
Her eyes stung—her heart stung.
With a shaky breath, she shut the door. She stood there, in a state of shock and absolute betrayal, staring at the door. Of course, she knew her account of last night sounded crazy, but it’d happened…
Had it? she thought.
Blake looked down at her arms again. Not a single cut or scratch.
What if I dreamt it…?
Blake shook her head. It wasn’t a dream, it was real.
The note!
She had the note to prove it. Blake fished out the crumpled piece of paper from her jacket pocket. Stepping away from the door, she perched herself on the edge of the table and read the note again.
‘Dear Blake Harper. I, also, will attend youthful reservoir-do on Friday. Early, um, six? —M’
Aloud, she read, “D. I. A. D. E. M.”
There it was, as clear as day, encrypted in the scrambled words; Diadem. And she’d found the diadem in Zeke’s home. He’d arranged to meet with her at 6pm on Friday. But someone had killed him before he could show. It was real, all of it.
Blake cleared her hoarse throat, the note rattling in her shaking hands. Maybe she had missed something? There had to be more. She needed more to support her story.
Raking her gaze back and forth, she read and reread and reread the note. The coded word remained the same. The rules were that the first letter of every third word was the clue, so she moved onto the second sequence.
“Blake,” she read aloud, “Also. Youthful. On. Um.” Blake paused and frowned at the note. “B. A. Y. O. U.”
The bayou. Diadem and bayou. What did they have in common?
She looked up from the note, one name swimming through her mind—Hunter Jackson.
What if he had something to do with it? She had to know. The Sheriff wasn’t going to do a damn thing, just like with the other four unsolved murders in Belle-Vue. And her parents, her dads, the men she’d trusted her entire life—they were shipping her off to a loony bin.
Blake was on her own.
Voices neared the door. They were coming for her. Blake stuffed the note into her pocket. The door swung open and revealed three pairs of cautious eyes.
“Blakie!” Abe rushed over to her. He pulled her into a warm embrace. She could feel his tears dampening her limp hair. “I love you, sweetie. You know that, don’t you?”
Blake remained stiff in his hold, arms at her side. She scowled over his shoulder at Jack. The darkness in her emerald eyes stopped him from hugging her too.
Traitors, she thought.
Blake had a plan. But it involved escaping Abe and Jack as soon as possible.
Jack had driven Blake’s car back to the house; she went with Abe. At home, she spent the better part of the morning in her bedroom, rereading the note, showering, and checking her phone. It wasn’t long before she was called down to the kitchen to discuss the madhouse they wanted to
send her to.
Pamphlets were spread over the dinner table. She ignored them, and listened to Jack and Abe spew feeble excuses as to why they thought Harmony would be good for her. They tried to negotiate with her, offering a two-month ‘vacation’ there, instead of five months. But she didn’t participate. She just sat there, in the chair, gazing at the pamphlets.
When she finally spoke, Abe and Jack both stilled.
“Is Sheriff Cotton even going to check my story?” she asked. “Or are you all happy to send me packing without a care in the world?”
It was Jack who said, “Sheriff Cotton will drop by the Prescott’s house today to check on Zeke.”
Blake didn’t miss the wording. ‘To check on Zeke’ was not the same as ‘To see if he’s dead’. Sheriff Cotton intended only on ensuring Blake didn’t harass Zeke or had illegally entered the property. The latter was true.
“This is bullshit,” she mumbled, shoving the pamphlets away from her. “I know what I saw.”
“Blakie Bear,” crooned Abe. He leaned over the table to hold her hand. She pulled back before he could touch her. “We believe you,” he said gently.
Jack and Blake snapped their gazes to him.
“You do?” she whispered.
“What I mean to say is,” he corrected, “we believe that you believe you saw a monster.”
“It wasn’t a monster,” she said. “It was a … a thing. She looked dead, ok?”
Abe sighed and flopped back in his chair.
Jack said, “You’re not supporting your case, Blake.”
“Right,” she spat. She kicked the chair back and stood. “I’m going to my room. Don’t bother me.”
“You haven’t had breakfa—”
“I DON’T WANT YOUR CRAPPY BREAKFAST, DAD!” Blake bellowed. Abe paled. “JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Blake stormed out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs to her bedroom, making sure to slam her bedroom door shut, hard.
8
The Bayous
Jack and Abe did what she wanted—they left her alone. Minutes ticked by into hours before she realised that they weren’t going to check on her. She’d waited to be sure. And the moment she was, she changed into white jeans a black sweater. Jack had driven her car home from the station, and had put the keys in the bowl by the front door. A silly move on his part. He should’ve kept the keys on his person.
At midday, Blake ducked out of her window onto the patio roof; she shimmied down the wooden pillar before climbing down vine fence. Blake’s flat plimsoles thudded gently against the soil as she landed like a cat. Slowly, she peeked over the bushes and looked through the living room window. Abe and Jack were nowhere to be seen. She assumed they were still in the kitchen, discussing her and Harmony.
After tucking her phone in her back pocket—where the note was—Blake crept up the porch steps to the front door. She cracked opened the door and held her breath. The slightest noise could give her away. Beside her, the table stood with the key bowl on top. Her fingers stretched through the gap in the door and hooked around her keys. She pulled her hand back out, holding her breath.
The door closed with a soft click.
Blake turned and sprinted down the path to the sidewalk. As always, her car was parked on the browning lawn between the pavement and road. Blake hopped inside, wrangled the stiff gearstick into neutral, then released the handbrake. She jumped back out of the car, and thrusted it forward with all her might. It rolled off the grass onto the road.
Once she was in the clear, she jammed the keys into the ignition and jumped back into the driver’s seat. The Jeep choked to life. Blake slammed her foot on the accelerator and took off down the street, leaving clouds of smoke in her wake.
To avoid crossing paths with the Sheriff or Deputy, Blake took the side streets and backroads. When she sped over the rail tracks, she lifted her bum off the seat and fumbled for her phone. As she whipped it out, she whizzed past the reservoir turnoff. She dialled Rachel’s number. It went to voicemail after only two rings. Blake suspected that Rachel had rejected the call. She’s be furious with Blake, and would think that she’d meant to ditch her at the party.
“This is Rachel’s cell,” said the voicemail message. “I’m either busy or avoiding you. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you if I feel like it. I’ll text you back, though. I mean, who calls anymore?”
Despite hearing the same voicemail greeting a hundred times before, Blake’s lips twisted into a small smile at the familiar sound. Just hearing Rachel’s pompous voice made Blake realise how much she missed her. It felt as if she hadn’t seen Rachel for weeks—she’d only just seen her at school the day before.
A lot had happened since then.
The beep sounded. Blake cleared her throat and spoke into the voice box. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you yesterday. I went to Bethany’s house last night.” Blake paused, holding her breath for a moment before she exhaled loudly. “Rachel … Zeke is dead,” she said in a whisper. “The Sheriff doesn’t believe me. He’s covering it up like the other murders. Something’s going on here, Rach. I don’t know what, but if my dads come looking for me, tell them you haven’t heard from me. I’m going to the bayou to see Hunter. I think he’s connected to whatever is happening.”
The voicemail timed out. Blake resisted the tears that gathered in her eyes. She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and turned onto the dirt road that led to the marshlands. She’d only driven down this road a handful of times when she had to babysit Flora’s kids. There were a few rickety bridges ahead that rose above the swampier soil. Blake always feared that bridges would collapse under her, and she’d be sucked into the earth.
Now, she thought, that didn’t seem so bad after all.
Blake slowed the Jeep as she reached the crossroads. The dirt road to her left ran all the way to the trailer park—most of the bayou folk lived there. The road ahead travelled to the abandoned mines, but the bridge that connected the road to the old buildings had rotted. The road to the right led to the old village from the early settlement.
Blake spun the steering wheel and drove down the narrow road to the village. Tall swamp-trees flanked her for a few miles until she reached the clearing.
It was a stripped area—all the bushes had been pulled from the soil and the swamp-trees hacked down; replaced with old rickety houses, slanted from the moving soil they were built on. There were no streets or driveways—only a dozen shacks and a couple of terraced houses were plotted around the lot. Scruffy dogs wandered around the mud, dirty children chased each other up and down sludgy paths, and shiny motorcycles were lined up with the houses.
Blake didn’t know which house was Hunter’s. She hadn’t been down to the village before. She parked her car near the trees and climbed out. Her presence was noticed before she’d even closed her car door.
The playing children stopped to gawk at her; cigarette-smokers congregated on moulded porches to observe her; gruff Wolves, drinking cans of beer, loitered near their bikes and their shifty eyes followed her.
The houses were damp and aged, falling apart at the seams. It was difficult to think that this was the nicest area in the bayous. Although, she had seen the trailer park a couple of times and it wasn’t any better than the village.
Blake trekked up to the houses. One of the mud-grimed kids ran up to meet her. The boy was around ten years old, and his dark eyes were bright as he shadowed her. The boy followed her for a few seconds in silence, staggering at her side. His nose crinkled as he squinted up at her.
When they passed the second house, he eventually said, “Who are you?”
Blake raised her brows and glanced down at the tanned boy. “I’m Blake Harper. And you?”
He jogged to keep up with her brisk strides. “Name’s Spud,” he said. The other children backed away as they neared. Blake fleetingly thought of a bunch of children seeing a wild dog—most were too afraid to approach, but then there was a brave child who got close enough to pat it
.
“Spud?” she echoed, befuddled. “That’s an interesting name. Is it short for Potato?”
He seemed to consider this. His brows knitted together as he looked up at the cloudy sky. “I don’t think so.”
“Well Spud,” she said. “I’m looking for someone. Think you can help me out?”
“Who are you looking for?”
“His name is Hunter Jackson. Do you know him?”
Spud stopped. “That’s my brother!” His voice came out in a squeak as he jumped on the spot. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Blake didn’t realise Hunter had a brother. In fact, she only knew he had a dad, and that was due to their frequent visits to the diner together. She’d never thought about his family life before, she realised.
Blake jogged to keep up with Spud—he ran ahead, weaving around the spectators and cabins. The other kids chased after them, but they didn’t get too close, almost as if they were afraid Blake would bite them.
Spud veered onto a muddy lane between two houses. He was out of sight by the time she reached the muddy alleyway. Her white jeans were caked in brown slime up to her calves when she got to the end of the lane and saw one house looming ahead.
It was separate from the others. Higher up on a hardened hill—a double-story terrace house with a chipped porch. Compared to the other houses on the lot, it was well-cared for. A few of the windows were new and the front door was sanded. On the patchy lawn at the front of the house were two motorcycles. It was there that Spud rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
He stepped to the side, revealing Hunter Jackson’s back.
Hunter crouched down beside his motorbike. He appeared to be replacing parts. A stained pair of black jeans hung low on his hips, while the rest of his olive-skinned body—shoulders, back and arms—wore only smudges of oil and dirt.
“Told you,” said Spud. “He’s my big brother, he is. Looks after me when dad’s gone.”
