Poison Tongue

by Nash Summers

  I turned to look to where he’d tipped his head. Outside in the hallway, leaning against the wall, was Ward. His eyes were closed and his arms were folded across his chest.

  I burst out laughing. “Ward is not my bodyguard.”

  Monroe stared at me, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Positive.”

  He turned away, facing the vintage bathtub, and pulled his T-shirt off over his head. I could hear the sound of his zipper, but I barely registered it. All I could do was stare at the marks on his back. Long, red, fresh claw marks covered his back in a weave of slashes.

  Whose nails had left those marks across his back?

  My throat went dry. My skin chilled. I took a step back and the floorboards creaked. Monroe looked at me over his shoulder as he stepped out of his jeans, leaving only his boxer briefs on.

  “Levi?”

  “Sorry,” I sputtered.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing. Just took me by surprise.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The marks. On your back.”

  Acknowledgment swept across his face. “They were there when I woke up.”

  “Probably not alone,” I mumbled childishly.

  “Yes, alone.” His voice raised. “Christ, Levi, do you always have to think the worst of me?”

  “You being with someone else isn’t me thinking the worst of you. You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

  He eyed me, from the tips of my bare toes to the top of my head. “Not whatever I want.”

  “Monroe—” I started at the same moment Mama walked in.

  “Here.” She set down a box on the sink. “The things you’ll need for the purifying bath.” When neither Monroe nor I said anything, Mama continued. “Stop it, both of you. Whatever it is, you best cut it out. The tension in this room is damning. To break this curse, you’ll have to be stronger than this.”

  Without another word she walked out of the washroom and closed the door.

  Sighing, I pulled the lid off the box and peered inside. Salt, cayenne, basil, vetiver, wormwood, a lighter, a small glass bowl, and a small baggie labeled “Uncrossing Incense.” I studied each of the small bags, tugging them open, smelling them, as Monroe shut off the water.

  “I can probably do this myself, you know,” Monroe said.

  “It would be best if I did it,” I replied without looking at him.

  He sighed. “Levi, I know you don’t want to be here with me.”

  “Who said I don’t want to be here with you?”

  “I can see it in your body language, written all over your face.”

  I grabbed the box and walked to the bathtub. One by one I poured the contents of each bag into the water, using my arms to stir them around.

  “It’s not that,” I said quietly. When I was done with the box, I set it back on the countertop. “I know I can be… cold.”

  “You’re not cold, you’re just….” Monroe tossed his hands up in the air, only to drop them again and stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Reserved? Cautious?”

  “Untrusting?”

  “I don’t expect you to trust me. Not yet, anyway.”

  I looked at the floor, tracing a thin crack in the tile with my toe. “I do like you, Monroe,” I said softly. Somehow that felt more intimate to me than anything and everything we’d shared together up until that point. The looks we’d exchanged, the small touches of our hands, the warm kisses in front of the fire, the nightmares in the swamp. None of it compared to the weight of telling Monroe that I felt something for him, something organic and raw enough for me to voice it.

  I couldn’t look him in the eye, couldn’t bear to see the expression on his face.

  “Levi.”

  I turned to him.

  “I think you’re… extraordinary.”

  After a pause I smiled. “Now get in the bath.”

  Monroe grinned at me and my heart began to race. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs and drew them down. I looked away, my face warming.

  “Nothing you haven’t seen, darlin’.”

  “The situation is a bit different,” I said. He raised his eyebrows and I laughed. “And yes, it’s staying that way.”

  Monroe stepped into the bathtub and slowly sank down. I leaned against the sink cabinet and watched him. He was too big for the tub, and his knees poked out of the water when he sank inside.

  Turning away, I rooted through the box and took out the bowl, lighter, and the bag of uncrossing incense. I poured the incense into the bowl, lit it, and set it to the side of the counter.

  “Romantic,” Monroe said. “Smells like burning hay.”

  I tried to focus on the words he was saying, but I was distracted by the glistening, black scales of the snake, coiled around his thigh. It didn’t move, its head hidden underwater.

  “I met a man once,” Monroe said, “in a little town in Indiana. Blinder than a slab of marble. Drank at the same pub every night. Vodka neat. I was working behind the bar. Only stayed about three weeks.

  “The first night that man sat down on a barstool in front of me, he called me ‘Pretty Boy.’ At first I thought he might call everyone that. That was until he kept giving nicknames to the regulars. ‘Red,’ he called the redheaded woman who came in three times a week after work for a single glass of wine. He called a cop with a gold tooth ‘Goldie’ behind his back all the time. So, my last shift there, I asked him why he called me Pretty Boy. He told me to go look at myself in a mirror. I laughed, but he didn’t crack a smile. He told me that some people, the very lucky people, can see with more than their eyes.”

  Droplets of water trickled down the side of his face. They caught on the dark whiskers along his jawline.

  “Did you believe him?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I do now. What happened to your mama’s eyes?”

  I closed my eyes. “When Gran died, it was hard on her. It was hard on all of us, but her the most. It had always been them two until I came along. Then Silvi. When Gran got sick, I don’t think Mama knew what to do with herself. I was young, Silvi only a baby. We woke up some mornings to me screaming, or sleepwalking out into the bayou, or to some dead animal on our doorstep that had come here just to die. I was too young at the time to realize the toll that took on her. And then Gran died, and it was us three. And Ward, of course.

  “When Silvi got older and started learning to talk, the only thing she wanted to talk about were people that me and my mama couldn’t see. We knew she’d be different, like the rest of the family, but I don’t know Mama knew how to cope. She performed a ritual. Something not right. Something evil. She asked for Gran back in exchange for anything of hers. The devil took most of her sight. And now the only one who can actually see Gran is Silvi.”

  “Wow.” Monroe ran his wet hand through his hair. “That’s messed up.”

  “Dark magic ain’t something we take lightly. Not anymore, at least.”

  A long silence stretched between us. The uncrossing incense crackled and burned behind me on the counter. Water swooshed against the sides of the tub.

  “What will I do if this doesn’t work?” Monroe asked quietly.

  “Then we’ll try something else.”

  “And then?”

  “Something will work, Monroe.”

  Someone knocked on the door. I hopped off the counter and pulled it open a crack. Ward stood on the other side, towel in hand. He passed it to me and I set it on the counter.

  “That should be long enough,” I said to Monroe. “You should air dry, but here’s a towel just in case. Take your time.”

  I slipped out and closed the bathroom door behind me.

  When Ward and I walked into the living room, Mama was sitting on the couch, wringing her hands, and Silvi was kneeling in front of the coffee table, drawing pictures. Coin sat next to her, his head in her lap, his tail banging softly against the floor.


  “I’m worried, Levi,” Mama said.

  I sat down next to her. “I am too.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Monroe walked down the hall. He was fully dressed, his hair still wet, the towel slung around his shoulders. Coin’s ears perked up when he walked into the room, but he remained seated next to Silvi.

  “How do we know if it worked?” Monroe asked.

  “Do you feel any different?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I’ll be able to tell,” I said, standing.

  Even as I walked toward him, I knew it hadn’t worked. The air was still too thick, the light around him too dark, his presence too weighted. Still, I stopped in front of him and looked up into his eyes.

  Only the dark, endlessly deep waters of the swamp danced in the cool blueness.

  Monroe must’ve read it on my face, because his expression immediately changed. A wall formed between us. It stacked higher and higher until I couldn’t read anything on his face at all.

  “Coin,” he said, turning away. Coin jumped up and ran over to his side.

  “We’ll try something else,” I sputtered.

  “Thanks for trying.” He nodded at my mama, gave me a half-formed smile, and bolted toward the front door.

  “I’M HERE to see the sheriff,” I stated.

  “Name?” the receptionist asked.

  “Levi Bell.”

  The front entrance of the sheriff’s station was empty except for me, the receptionist, and Ward. The small building smelled of disinfectant and lemon cleaner. The decor looked like it was from the seventies, and in Malcome that was considered relatively new. The scratched linoleum floor still managed to shine from overpolishing. Each wall seemed to be painted a different color of eggshell or off-white. Or maybe they were differently colored because of age and sun damage.

  The receptionist eyed me like she was trying to recognize my face from somewhere. She was a middle-aged lady I’d met a time or two at community functions, but I couldn’t remember her name. Lorna? Lynda? I supposed it boded well for me that I wasn’t familiar with her and she wasn’t familiar with me.

  “Dawson,” she said into the telephone receiver. “There’s a Levi Bell here to see you.” After a short pause, she hung up. She pointed to the bright hallway to her right. “Last door on the right.”

  With a quick nod, I walked down the hallway, Ward following behind. Sheriff Dawson stood outside his office door. He wore a standard uniform button-up, beige-colored pants, and a holster strapped to his chest.

  “Levi Bell,” he said as I approached. “Now this is a surprise. Got yourself into some trouble?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, come on inside.”

  He led me into his office and took a seat behind the desk. Neatly stacked papers occupied each corner, and a mug that read I Am the Law housed four blue pens. On top of a filing cabinet sat a framed picture of him standing next to an older man, holding a large bass by a string. Some kind of green plant resided in the corner that I noted looked impossibly green and must’ve been fake. But as I looked at the dust-free corners of the room and the perfectly level awards and certificates hanging on the wall, I second-guessed myself. Sheriff Dawson was more likely a control freak.

  “What can I do for you, Levi?” Sheriff Dawson leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. I made it a point not to look at his thickly muscled arms stretched against the fabric.

  “I need a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “I was hoping you’d let me look at the old files from the Poirier murder.”

  “Do I even want to ask what for?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Well, I’m still going to ask. What for?”

  “He’s going through a hard time. I just want to see if I can offer a bit of insight into his past. It might help ease the sting of moving back to Malcome. It hasn’t exactly been a warm welcome.”

  Dawson sighed. “You’re tellin’ me. With the fights and then the fire to his garage. The fire marshal has no idea what started the fire, and Poirier is shrugging it off like he couldn’t care less.”

  “He knows people around here don’t like him, Sheriff.”

  “No one but you, it seems.”

  I paused a beat, then nodded.

  Dawson set his forearms on the desk and leaned slightly toward me. “You could’ve asked Lydia out front, or one of the other officers, you know.”

  I winced, offering him a small smile. “I thought I might have more luck with you.”

  He stared at me—hard. I could almost feel his eyes digging into me. But then he leaned back in his chair and filled the room with his booming laughter. “You’re a bit of a smartass, you know that?” he said, a huge grin on his face.

  “I’ve been told a time or two.”

  Dawson grabbed one of the blue pens out of the mug. He began twirling it around in his fingers as he looked at me.

  “Okay, Levi Bell,” he said. “You can look at the old Poirier files. I’ll get Lydia to fish them out of the back for you, and we’ll set you up in one of the meeting rooms.”

  “A meeting room?”

  “Yep. Case files can’t leave the station.”

  “By the book, aren’t you, Sheriff?”

  “Always.”

  “All right, then. The meeting room. Promise not to watch me through the two-way mirror?”

  Dawson just kept twirling the pen between his fingers, beaming at me.

  AFTER THE third hour of the painfully bright overhead lighting and the uncomfortable metal chair, my eyes began to cross. There were papers scattered across the tabletop. Names, dates, descriptions, and pictures filled my head.

  Originally I’d been hoping to look through a few files and come across something that jumped out at me. Unfortunately that hadn’t been the case. I wasn’t familiar with police procedure or terminology, so half of my time was spent with the procedural handbook Lydia had given me upon my request.

  So far, what I’d found out was almost word for word what I’d been told. Monroe had found his father over his mama’s body, according to the statement he’d given. He’d mistaken the man for the murderer, grabbed his shotgun, and fired at his dad from a few feet away. The pictures of Monroe’s clothes covered in blood spatter were disturbing, to say the least. I’d also discovered that when Monroe’s aunt, Germaine Poirier, first came onto the scene, she went into what officers called a “wild frenzy.”

  Something didn’t sit right with me. Although Malcome was only a few hours’ drive from Baton Rouge, one of the police reports stated that Germaine Poirier didn’t have a driver’s license. The police had questioned how she’d made it there so quickly, but later she gave a statement saying she had gotten a ride with a friend.

  While that hadn’t been unbelievable, the sheriff at the time still thought it odd. His notes indicated he had, but most of the time and effort by the small, local police force was put toward the trial of Monroe Poirier for the murder of his dad.

  Few things were left in the box full of papers, but the corner of a newspaper article caught my attention. I wasn’t sure why, but I decided to trust my instincts. I pulled it out of the box, laid it out in front of me, and began reading it.

  Local resident Germaine Poirier took her own life this past weekend. Police tape surrounded the entire Poirier house, the back dock of the house included. When questioned, the sheriff gave no official statement. Locals say there was talk of ritualistic satanic markings covering the walls in the house with what appeared to have been blood. The coroner from Devlin County did the autopsy and refuses to comment on whether or not the blood could’ve come from Ms. Poirier herself.

  Ms. Poirier was first found when a group of boys walked by the Poirier house and noticed something strange on the back dock. When the boys found out that it was in fact the deceased body of Ms. Poirier, they immediately informed the Malcome Sheriff’s Department.

  While unconfirmed, it is widely believed within the
town of Malcome that the blood on the walls was, in fact, Ms. Poirier’s, and that she died by a self-inflicted stab through her breastbone, puncturing her heart.

  Malcome locals say that Ms. Poirier lived in the house for less than a year and had never been seen in public. Ms. Poirier leaves behind no family except for a nephew, Mr. Monroe Poirier, who is of no blood relation.

  Locals are signing a petition to burn down the Poirier house. The number of deaths that have taken place in the Poirier house to date, locals think, is enough reason to burn the house.

  In Ms. Germaine Poirier’s will it states that she be cremated, and that her ashes be spread through the swamp so that she may be with her adopted brother, the deceased Mr. John Poirier.

  My heart galloped.

  Ritualistic satanic symbols? Blood on the walls? And then to have her body cremated and spread through the swamp?

  I sat back in my chair. Monroe’s aunt, Germaine Poirier, had been the one to place the curse on Monroe. That much was obvious. But what I couldn’t understand was why she’d wanted her brother’s ashes, as well as her own, scattered through the swamp instead of keeping them in the house. The house had been where Monroe’s dad died. So why the swamp? And had she killed herself? These curses worked in blood rituals and sacrifice. What would cause a person to take her own life to seek revenge on a child? How much would a person have to hate someone to take their own life?

  And then it hit me.

  I riffled through the papers, searching, uncaring when they toppled to the floor. Until I found it. I took the picture in my hands, brought it close. It was a photograph of the inside of the Poirier house. There were red, dripping symbols scrawled across the walls. But there, above the fireplace, was a framed picture. On the corner of the golden frame were bloody fingerprints. And inside that frame was a picture of a young man, about my age, who looked eerily similar to Monroe himself. He stood on the dock behind the Poirier house, hands stuffed into his pockets, his gaze intently out on the swamp as if he hadn’t known someone was taking that picture. The sun glowed behind his head, casting an almost angelic outline around his profile.