“You really believe that?” Decker knew the stories, just like everyone else who had grown up in Wolf Haven. The town kids had been calling Annie Doucet a witch since he was a boy, probably even before that. It was just nonsense, but the Cajuns took their superstitions seriously in these parts. “Just because she’s a little odd–”
“A little odd? Don’t make me laugh,” Mayor Thornton guffawed. “She’s certifiably crazy is what she is.”
“That still doesn’t make her a witch.” Decker swung the car off the track and pulled up in front of the cabin. “Here we are then.”
“You’re coming in with me, right?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t want you to face an old woman all on your own.” Decker opened his door and waited while his passenger climbed out of the cruiser. If the Mayor caught the sarcasm in the sheriff’s voice he didn’t show it.
They were about to climb the three worn wooden steps leading up to the cabin when the front door swung silently inward.
“Looks like she’s expecting us,” Decker said. “Almost like she saw us coming in her crystal ball.”
“Not funny,” Beau responded as a frail shape emerged from the cabin.
Annie Doucet stood in the doorway, observing them with black beady eyes. “Wondered when you’d show up Beau Thornton.”
“Well hello there Annie,” the mayor replied, his face stoic.
“I see you brought your lapdog sheriff along for the ride.”
“Now don’t be like that Annie.”
“I’ll do as I will.” Annie turned and retreated back through the door. “You’d better come on in and say your piece, time’s wasting.”
2
THE INTERIOR OF the cabin smelled like old socks and mold. A kerosene lamp hung from a beam above their heads, the flame doing little to illuminate the dank one-room hut. “Good god, she doesn’t even have electric service,” Thornton whispered, covering his mouth with his hand as if that would somehow shield the fact that he was speaking. “What a way to live.”
“Shut up or she’ll never agree to sell you her land.” Decker cast his eyes around, picking out sticks of furniture in the gloom. A rocking chair occupied one corner, while a metal frame bed took up the other. In the center of the hut stood a table and two chairs. The only other thing in the cabin was a wood-burning stove with a belly that glowed red despite the humid weather outside.
Thornton turned to the old woman. “I have some documents for you to sign.” He held the sheaf of papers out. His hand shook a little. “Then we can put this nasty business behind us and move on.”
“What if I don’t want to sign?” Annie peered at them with hooded eyes set into bony sockets. “This land has been in my family for six generations.”
“I appreciate that Annie, I do, but this here is progress. The town needs that road out to the Interstate. Your land is slap bang in the middle of the route.”
“Not my problem.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Thornton said. “If you don’t sign these papers, take the money we’re offering you, then the State will purchase the land against your will.”
“The answer’s still no.” Annie didn’t raise her voice, but neither Decker nor Thornton could fail to miss the anger behind the words. “You take your papers, and your check, back where you got them.”
“I’m going to leave these here.” Thornton deposited the paperwork on the table and backed up. “Take a few days to look over them. You’ll see we’re making you a very generous offer considering your land is nothing but mosquito infested swamp.”
“You’ll regret this.” Annie’s voice was dry, rasping.
“I doubt it.” Thornton turned toward the door. “Come on sheriff. Why don’t you drive me back to town.”
Decker followed the mayor back into the sunlight, relieved to be away from the gloom inside the cabin. He wished he hadn’t agreed to escort the mayor up here. It seemed wrong to be forcing this frail old woman out of her home just so that they could build a road. But at the end of the day it wasn’t his call.
Annie Doucet watched the two men depart. She waited until the police cruiser was out of sight before turning back to the interior of the cabin, then scooped up the papers and threw them into the wood-burning stove. She watched the flames lick hungrily at the documents, reducing them to ash.
Walking to a shelf packed with old books, she selected a volume and laid it out on the table, leafing through dry brown pages as frail as she was. She paused at a page toward the middle of the book and stooped low to make out the text, running a bony finger along the paper, tracing the handwritten words as she read them.
Next, the old woman shuffled to her bed. She bent and dragged a chest out from underneath. She opened it and pulled out several mason jars, selecting each for the contents within, and a small copper bowl.
She brought the jars and bowl to the table and mixed the ingredients, careful to follow the instructions in the book, humming a tune to herself as she did so.
It wouldn’t be long now, and then she would show the good folk of Wolf Haven just what she thought of their road…
3
FLOYD BENSON LIFTED another jug into the flatbed and winced as a stab of pain shot up his back. He was getting too old for this kind of thing.
“Get a move on in there Terry,” he called, glancing toward the makeshift toilet, which was, in reality, nothing more than a depression in the ground surrounded by stained tarpaulins. “Did you fall down the hole?”
“I’ll be out in a second.” The voice of Terry Boudreaux drifted from the latrine. “That’s the last time I order the Red Beans and Rice at Cassidy’s. Damn stuff went and gave me the shits.”
“Too much information Terry.” Floyd doubted it was the Red Beans and Rice. He’d eaten the same thing and he was just fine. It was more likely to be the days old Gumbo he’d brought with him and consumed cold on the drive to the camp. He doubted if Terry bothered to refrigerate it either. The boy was dumber than a box of rocks.
He lifted another jug, the liquid inside shifting when he heaved it toward the truck. He dropped it down on the bed with a grunt and counted his work. Sixteen containers loaded and ready to go. Not bad.
There was still no sign of Terry. If he didn’t get a move on they would be late for the drop, and that would not be good, not good at all. “Come on boy, for Chrissakes. This moonshine ain’t gonna drive itself.”
The flaps of the latrine parted and Terry emerged, a scowl plastered across his face. “Alright, alright. I’m coming. Quit your bellyaching.”
“You want a payday or not?” Floyd wished he could ditch Terry, find someone with a little more ambition, but he couldn’t. The boy was his nephew, and like they said, you can’t pick your family.
“Where we going tonight anyhow?” Terry approached the truck cab and hopped into the driver’s seat, pulling the door closed.
“Bellows Creek.”
“Shit, that’s miles away. We won’t get back before dawn.”
“So? You got a hot date or something?”
“Maybe I do.”
“Yeah, right. Don’t make me laugh.” Floyd chuckled as he took his place in the passenger seat next to his nephew. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go.”
Terry put the truck in gear and coaxed the vehicle forward. He reached out and snapped on the headlights, their twin beams illuminating the patch of open ground nestled between the tall pine trees, the gin still nestled under a green tarp strung between the tree trunks, and the rows of empty jugs waiting to be filled with liquor.
“Shut those lights off you damn fool,” Floyd said, shooting Terry a sharp look. “You’ll have every cop in the parish down on us.”
“Alright. Sorry.” Terry killed the lights. “So how am I supposed to see where I’m going?”
“It’s a full moon you dipshit. There’s plenty of light.” Floyd exclaimed. “Just take it slow and easy.”
“Yeah, right. Just don’t blame me if we run
into a tree.” Terry inched the truck forward until he was out of the clearing, then picked up a little speed when he reached the dirt track. He hunched over the wheel, concentrating as he steered the vehicle down the center of the trail.
They drove in silence for the next five miles. It was only when they reached the paved road and the lights of Wolf Haven appeared on the horizon that Floyd spoke again. “Take route 16. It’ll skirt the town.”
“That’ll take us miles out of our way,” Terry protested. “River Road is quicker.”
“And it goes right through the center of Wolf Haven.”
“So what? It’s 2am, who’s gonna see us?”
“Sheriff Decker for one. You think he’s tucked up in bed right now with a cup of cocoa and a good book?” If Floyd knew the full moon was the best time to move moonshine, then so did the sheriff. “Just do what I say.”
“Fine, but it’s not my fault if we’re late.”
“Hell, yes it is. If you’d helped me load the truck instead of spending the whole damn time taking a crap we’d have been on the road half an hour ago.”
“Whatever you say.” Terry lapsed into a sullen silence.
Floyd settled back into the seat and looked out at the pinewoods, watching the trees slip by as they made their way toward town. When they reached a fork in the road Terry turned right, onto Route 16. They picked their way through the woods. Terry drove a little slower than Floyd would have liked, taking the curves at a painful pace, but he could not be bothered to complain about it.
He closed his eyes and yawned, overcome by a deep weariness. That was the problem with this business, you had to do everything after dark, and Floyd was not a night owl. He found it almost impossible to sleep when the sun was up. He wondered why he’d ever gotten into moonshining in the first place. Back then, in the mid-sixties, things had been different. The cops were easier to bribe, and the Alcohol and Tobacco agents didn’t have all the fancy gizmos they used today, like thermal imaging cameras and helicopters. Thank god he had a get out of jail free card in the form of a nice fat check from the state, courtesy of Mayor Thornton and the local Chamber. A year from now his land would have a few miles of blacktop running through it, and he would be living it up off the proceeds somewhere far, far away.
“Shit.”
Floyd was rocked from his slumber by a jolting lurch, as Terry slammed on the brakes hard, bringing the car to a halt in the middle of the road. “What in the hell are you doing now boy?”
“Holy shit on a shovel. Did you see that?”
“See what?” Floyd peered through the dirt-streaked windshield, but all he saw was empty road slicing through the pine trees, and beyond that nothing but murky blackness.
“There was something standing there, in the middle of the road,” Terry gulped. “It looked right at me.”
“We’re in the woods genius. It was probably a possum.”
“You think I can’t recognize a possum when I see it?” Terry flicked on the headlights and leaned forward, his eyes scanning the road. “Besides, it was too big for that, it was more like a man, bigger maybe.”
“A bear then. I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw a bear in these parts?”
“What else could it be?” Floyd settled down into the seat. He was growing tired of the conversation. There was clearly nothing in their way, and he wanted to get back to the business of delivering moonshine. Besides, they stuck out like a sore thumb sitting there with the engine idling and their headlamps lighting the place up like it was Christmas.
“I know what I saw.”
“Well there’s nothing there now.” Floyd pulled a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Let’s get a move on.” He opened the pack, pulled one out, and lifted it to his lips. He was about to light it when a mighty crash rocked the truck. The cigarette fell from Floyd’s lips and disappeared between his legs into the seat well.
“Shit. What the hell was that?” Terry’s eyes flew wide.
“How would I know?” Floyd opened the glove box and pulled out a .22 revolver as a second crash split the night. The truck shook. “It sounded like it came from the back. Go take a look.”
“Me? You go take a look. You’re the one with the gun.”
“You’re half my age.” Floyd held the weapon out. “Here, take it.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Well what good would it be if it wasn’t?”
“Just asking.” Terry took the revolver and weighed it in his hand. He pulled on the door handle and swung the truck door open. He hesitated.
“What now?” Floyd said. “Don’t tell me you’re too chicken shit.”
“Maybe we should go together.”
“Just get out there.” Floyd leaned over and gave the younger man a push. “And be careful with that gun. Try not to shoot yourself.”
Terry grumbled and climbed from the truck, disappearing into the black void behind the vehicle.
“You see anything?” Floyd adjusted the rear view mirror but all he saw was darkness.
“Not yet. Hold on.” Terry’s voice drifted back toward him. There was a moment of silence, and then he spoke again. “Dammit Floyd. Did you shut the tailgate before we left?”
“Course I did. What kind of a stupid question is that?” Floyd hollered back. “What’s going on?”
“We have a problem.” Terry’s voice sounded distant. “You’d better get back here.”
“This had better be good.” Floyd kicked his door open and climbed from the cab, his legs protesting the work. He reached the back of the truck and stopped, his jaw falling open in surprise.
“Son of a bitch.” He turned and kicked the rear fender of the truck, ignoring the pain that shot up his leg. “Shit.”
Sixteen jugs of moonshine lay shattered on the tarmac, the valuable liquid spreading across the blacktop and running onto the dirt at the roads edge where it soaked into the thirsty soil. His companion was nowhere in sight.
“Terry?” Floyd hollered. “What are you playing at boy?”
All he got was silence in return. A prickle of fear edged its way up his spine.
“Terry, you out here?” He whispered the words, not sure why he was bothering to keep his voice down.
Still nothing.
He turned, looking in both directions, examining the woods, the gaps between the trees, for any sign of the younger man. Terry was nowhere to be found.
“Come on son, this ain’t funny no more.” If this was Terry’s idea of a joke Floyd would kick the boy’s ass, half his age or not.
The moon slipped behind the clouds blanketing the road in darkness. Floyd backed up, stopping when he felt the tailgate of the truck push against his back.
“Terry?” He whispered into the blackness.
The clouds scudded across the sky, releasing the moon from their grip, and illuminated the road once again.
“Screw this.” Floyd muttered, turning back toward the truck. He did not want to be out here anymore. He’d always had a sixth sense when things weren’t right, it was what kept him one step ahead of the law, and this was about as far from right as it got.
“Floyd?” A voice carried on the wind.
Floyd froze. “Terry, that you boy?”
“Help.”
“Where you at boy?” Floyd kept his voice low.
“Please, help me.”
Floyd followed the voice. It seemed to be coming from his left, beyond the tree line.
“Hold on Terry, I’m coming.” He picked his way forward, toward the voice, pushing through the undergrowth as he stepped from the road.
“Hurry.” Terry sounded desperate.
Floyd picked up the pace, pushing branches aside as he penetrated deeper into the hardwoods, avoiding the trunks of tall pine trees as they loomed out of the darkness.
It didn’t take him long to find Terry. The younger man was propped up against a Hickory tree, his legs splayed out at an unnatural angle. The grimace of pain on his
face sent a shudder through Floyd.
“You alright there Terry?” Floyd asked, despite the evidence to the contrary. He edged closer.
“It hurts.” Terry’s voice seemed weak, rasping. “I think my legs are broken.”
“Who did this to you?” Floyd noticed that Terry no longer had the gun. He wondered where it was. He would sure feel safer with the weapon in his hands.
“Oh God, it’s coming back.” Terry’s eyes were wide with pain and fear. His voice raised an octave, shrill and thin. “It’s coming back for me. Oh no. No, no, no.”
“Who’s coming boy?” Floyd asked. “Who did this to you?” He’d heard that some of the other moonshiners were resorting to more extreme measures to knock their rivals out of business. Times were tough. Less people wanted illegal hooch these days, but to resort to this?
“Get me out of here.”
“But your legs…” One glance told Floyd that Terry couldn’t walk. “It’s gonna hurt like hell.”
“I don’t care. For pity’s sake.” The look on Terry’s face suddenly convinced Floyd that they should leave, and sooner rather than later.
He took a step forward.
A sharp crack resounded through the forest.
Floyd spun around, searching for the source of the sound.
A branch snapped, closer this time.
“Oh god, not again.” Terry shrieked. He tried to stand but his legs buckled under him. He let out a cry of pain and sank back to the ground.
A growl rose on the night air, deep and guttural. A chilling sound that made Floyd’s blood run cold.
Instinct took over. He turned and ran, all thought of helping his nephew abandoned. He plummeted headlong through the woods, back toward the road, moving faster than he had in over two decades.
Something crashed along in pursuit, something big and snarling, and it was getting closer.
Just as he thought he would make it, just when he could see the road through the trees, it caught up.
Strong hands gripped him, lifted him high. Curved claws, wicked and sharp, buried themselves into his shoulders like daggers. He sensed hot, rancid breath on his neck, and then he felt the teeth…
Fearsome Things: Five Short Tales of Horror and Suspense Page 4
