by Hunt, James
Nate quickly scurried to the living room windows, shutting the blinds, then checked the peephole at the front door. He spun around, his face a bright red. “Do you want someone to see you? What if they come back?”
Chuck sat on the couch. “Relax. I’ll leave after dark.”
“Yeah,” Nate replied, fidgeting as he paced the living room. “Probably for the best.” Nate then caught Chuck’s gaze, and his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. “It’s not that I don’t want you here, it’s just—”
“You don’t want to go to jail,” Chuck said.
“Hey, you don’t have to worry about me,” Nate said, that real estate charm returning now that he realized he wouldn’t have to harbor a wanted criminal. He sat in the chair across from the sofa and drummed his fingers on the armrest, his cheeks puffing with air. “So… What are you gonna do?”
“The less you know, the better,” Chuck answered.
Nate nodded, and then his eyes slowly drifted to the duffel bag.
“You’ll get your money when I leave,” Chuck said.
Nate smiled. “Right. Yeah, sure.” He lowered his eyes toward the duffel bag again and then quickly pulled them away. “The cops said they’re charging Owen with Jake and Billy’s murders.” Nate shifted in the chair. “You think that’ll stick?”
“Doesn’t do me any good if it doesn’t,” Chuck answered. With the police busy with Owen, it was less resources they could use to spend looking for him.
Nate leaned forward, his eyes wide. “So it’s true then, about the curse.” He shook his head in a feigned disbelief. “The way you spoke about it and after everything you’ve done to stop it, I mean I guess that I always believed the stories were real, but…” He narrowed his eyes, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There really is a creature after you.” He collapsed back into the chair, running his hands through his hair in the process. “Goddamn. So the Voodoo Queen, the house, your great-great-great-great grandfather. The little girl?” He chuckled hysterically, rubbing his eyes until the skin around them were red. “You’ve got one hell of a family.”
Chuck stared at the floor, focusing on a stain next to the coffee table. He wasn’t sure what it was. Probably bourbon, knowing Nate. But for whatever reason, he couldn’t get the idea out of his head that it was blood.
“Yeah,” Chuck said, not realizing he was smiling now. “Hell of a family.”
The laughter rolled out of Chuck, slow and quiet at first. His shoulders bobbed up and down, he scrunched his face tight, and a tear squeezed from the corner of his eye.
“Um, Chuck?” Nate asked.
“HAHAHAH!” Madness had finally taken hold. Chuck was nothing more than an inmate on death row, waiting for his name to be called. He’d fought so long against the inevitable, that black doom that hung over every man’s head. But in the end, none of it mattered. His wealth, his power, none of it could save him now.
The laughter faded, and Chuck wiped the tear from his cheek. His eyes returned to the stain on the carpet. Though he knew it wasn’t true, Chuck still saw blood. And then he felt the tears fall. Tears that his father would have beat him for showing. And if the creature got its way, then he might be joining his father in whatever hell their family was cast. All thanks to Owen Cooley.
* * *
From the road, the house on Cypress Lane looked abandoned and foreclosed. It had lost its glory and luster from the days when Queen Samba had lived in it. Instead of a place of refuge for the sick and dying, it had been transformed into a harbinger of death. But the Queen’s legacy survived through her disciples, as did her knowledge and power.
Madame Crepaux stood at the edge of the property, staff in hand and a fresh coat of sweat from the hot summer sun. Her joints had grown stiff, her knees and feet aching despite the staff’s support.
For years, Madame Crepaux had longed to set foot inside that house, to experience the history of those that she had admired. But now, with Bacalou free, she found herself hesitant to enter.
It was mostly guilt that kept her out. Guilt of the pain she had caused Owen Cooley and his family. She knew Owen’s fate the moment she saw him enter town. He was a necessary sacrifice to restore the balance of life and death. Without it, Bacalou’s curse would never end, and the Queen’s soul would never be free.
But had she not warned Owen Cooley of the price to retrieve his son? Yes, but not the whole cost.
Madame Crepaux closed her eyes and drew in a breath. She lifted her foot and lowered it onto the gravel road. When her foot touched rock, she exhaled, her body sagging with relief. She tilted her face toward the sky, the warmth of the sun beating on her old skin like the cracked and bumpy asphalt of the road. “Thank you, Bon Dieu.”
The front door groaned as Madame Crepaux opened it, the sunlight penetrating the shadows inside. Floorboards buckled underneath her feet, and the staff’s thump echoed loudly as she entered. The walls, the floors, the furniture, all of it contained the history of the Queen’s legend. Madame Crepaux imagined the cots that lined the rooms, Queen Samba traveling from bedside to bedside, nursing the sick back to health.
The war between life and death was as old as time itself. The gods had enlisted soldiers in that war, and Madame Crepaux had simply answered the call like so many others before her. And in this house, beneath the crusted blood of innocence lost and the curse that had taken so many, there was the woman who in her last moments had traded her soul for revenge.
Madame Crepaux lingered in the living room a moment longer, then walked out the back, keeping a path toward the Toussaint family cemetery. There was a man buried there that she wanted to see. The first root of a tree that had spawned so much death.
Deeper into the swamp, the warm black water rose to her thighs. She lifted her hand and gently ran her fingers through the dangling strands of moss. It had been a long time since she had traversed nature like this. It was quiet, serene, warm.
The cemetery appeared, and Madame Crepaux climbed the raised mound of soft mud toward the graveyard’s edge. Crumbled pieces of stone littered the ground, the tomes exposed from Owen Cooley’s search of the amulet. The disturbed dead slept restlessly, their bodies decaying and still in the long process of returning to the earth from which they came.
Amongst the family of murderers, she glided between the headstones, searching for his grave, which she found near the mausoleum at the graveyard’s center.
It was one of the oldest graves in the cemetery. The dates on the headstone had nearly been wiped away by the elements of time. But the name at the top was still legible in large Roman letters. Charles Toussaint.
Inside that coffin was a man who had murdered a child in cold blood, and then burned her mother at the stake. And as a follower of the great Queen Samba and her disciples who passed down their knowledge and truth for generations, she would finally give the Queen peace.
“Your tree is nearly dead,” Madame Crepaux said, glowering at the headstone. “I’ll make sure it stays that way.” She could still see the faded Latin beneath the name and years of life. Mors Mihi Lucrum. “To me, death is a reward.” She spoke the words gravely. She wondered why Charles Toussaint had chosen those words to be put on his family’s crest after the events with the Queen. Perhaps it was regret for the burden of future generations of his family. Or maybe it was just the fear of a tired old man on his deathbed.
Grimacing, she walked east, deeper into the swamp, traversing the trees and water. The black water touched her upper lip, only her eyes and the skull from her staff gliding over the water’s surface.
After the Queen had been burned and Charles Toussaint and his band of minions retreated to their town, Samba’s followers had emerged from the swamp, retrieving the body of Isadora and what remained of the Queen’s material self. They buried them side by side, deep within the heart of the swamp, hidden on the property where the Queen had healed so many.
For years after, the Queen’s followers would pilgrimage to her grave and honor her memory. Bu
t after the bokor created the amulet that chained Bacalou to the property and barred any followers of Samba from stepping foot around the house, the pilgrimages ended.
Fifty years had passed since any disciple had seen the grave of their Queen. But her memory was still alive, still vibrant in Madame Crepaux’s soul.
The stone brightened to a blinding light, and Madame Crepaux saw the raised mound of mud and the small marking of the graves. She hastened her pace, her feet sinking in the thick mud on her trek up the mound and out of the water.
The brown robes clung to her body, soaking wet and dripping. She collapsed to her knees at the foot of the graves, tears welling in her eyes as she bowed to the woman who had taught her so much.
“My Queen,” Madame Crepaux’s voice quivered as she spoke. “It is nearly done.” She placed her weathered hand against the soft, cool mud. “Peace will find you soon.” She closed her eyes and lowered her voice to a whisper. “But, please, forgive me for what I do next.”
Despite all her knowledge and dedication to her studies, Madame Crepaux was not as powerful as the Queen. And while she respected the balance of life, and restoring that balance had been her sole purpose, it didn’t diminish her own desire for revenge.
For decades, Madame Crepaux had been forced to sit on the sidelines, watching helplessly as the Toussaints roamed freely, untouched by the curse. It was a mockery of the Queen’s sacrifice and legacy.
Madame Crepaux placed both hands over the grave, chanting. The ground rattled and then parted, revealing the coffin of Queen Samba’s remains.
Buried with Queen Samba was the Queen’s gris-gris that she had read about in the scrolls. Unlike the Queen’s body, it did not burn, and it could not be destroyed. It held the Queen’s power, and Madame Crepaux could harness it.
But stealing another’s gris-gris marked one’s soul with darkness, and that darkness would grow so long as the gris-gris was kept. But Madame Crepaux had come too far now. Like the Queen’s final act of vengeance, she would bear the weight of this burden.
Madame Crepaux reached into the coffin and removed the amber stone from the grave. It radiated light and power, and when she clutched it in her fist, that same power flooded her veins.
The Queen’s knowledge, wisdom, and strength was suddenly hers. But underneath, she felt the pain and grief of Isadora’s death. It was as real and heartbreaking for her as it was the Queen.
Madame Crepaux closed her eyes as she placed the stone around her neck. “I will help Bacalou hunt him down. And when it is done, your soul will finally be at rest.”
With the Queen’s amulet around her neck, her body suddenly grew lighter. Her skin tightened, the years of life rolled back, and the aches and pains of old age disappeared. She watched her weathered hands be restored to the beauty of her youth. Her eyes flickered with a brilliant gold and she laughed, raising her arms toward the sky, reveling in the Queen’s power.
2
Owen shifted uncomfortably in his shackles, his back growing tighter the longer the trip lasted. One of the sheriff’s deputies, Lacroix, rode with him in the back of the van. He held a pump action twelve-gauge and was decked out in tactical gear. Deputy Hurt drove, while Bellingham rode in the passenger seat. It was just the four of them, despite Owen’s request for more firepower.
He felt the beast lurking in the back of his mind, gathering its strength, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep it shoved in its cage.
Owen tugged at his restraints. His movements had been constricted to breathing and blinking. But even with the added security, he wondered if it would be enough to stop the creature.
Most of the ride, Owen had preoccupied his mind with the whispers from the dead echoing in his thoughts. But the messages were short, incoherent, and random. It was like listening to a crazy person losing his voice. They had quieted some since they had gotten in the van, but every once in a while they screamed, and a flash of pain seared his brain.
Owen looked toward the sheriff through the tiny barred, square window. He saw only pieces of Bellingham’s profile, and that was when he heard another whisper. His heart raced. It was louder, and this one was human. He shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, and then grunted.
“H-he’s actin’ funny, Sheriff,” Lacroix said
Bellingham turned around. “Stop the van.”
The voice grew louder, taking shape in Owen’s mind. He shook his head. “No, I’m fine, it’s just— Gah!” A sharp prick stabbed the center of his brain, and his body stiffened against the chains and the voice grew louder.
The swamp. Twenty miles east of Route 22. I’m here.
Owen recognized the dead man’s voice. The van screeched to a stop, and both Owen and the deputy were thrust forward. Bellingham and Hurt got out of the front seats and then marched around to the back, the sunlight outside blinding in contrast to the dark of the van.
“Owen, you tell me what’s going on, now!”
He turned to the sheriff, struggling to maintain control. “I know where Jake Martin is.”
Bellingham lowered his weapon, and the van rocked as he climbed inside. “Where?”
“Twenty miles east of Route 22, in the swamp.” Owen grunted, his mouth starting to foam. “Sheriff, it’s coming.” Owen’s body vibrated like a taut guitar string. “You need to run. You need to— AHH!”
The two deputies backed away while Bellingham placed his hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Fight it, Cooley. Whatever it is, fight it!”
“Sheriff, you need to get out of there!” Deputy Hurt screamed, gun drawn and aimed at Owen.
Owen’s face reddened as Bacalou shoved Owen’s consciousness aside, forcing him to watch helplessly in the corner of his mind as his own body thrashed wildly.
Bellingham backed out of the van, slamming the doors shut and covering Owen’s body in darkness. But that was Bacalou’s environment.
Owen’s eyes blackened, his flesh greyed and scaled, and this time his teeth sharpened and lengthened in crooked rows. The hunger was insatiable, and from his view in the small corner of his own mind, he heard the sheriff on the other side of the van doors.
“Owen! Stay right where you are! Fight it!”
But he couldn’t. Bacalou was in control now, and the creature had only one thing on its mind. Find the heir of Charles Toussaint.
Bacalou broke Owen’s chains with one flex of its muscles. Black goo dripped from the corner of Owen’s mouth, his misshapen teeth permanently exposed from the vicious snarl.
Owen’s body possessed accentuated features of the creature now, complete with elongated claws at the end of his fingers. His torso had widened, and extra muscle padded his legs and arms.
Bacalou charged the van doors, causing the reinforced steel doors to buckle. It roared, its anger rising, and charged again, this time breaking through and tumbling to the ground outside. It rolled over the grass and asphalt and skidded to a stop as Bellingham and the deputies stepped backward.
“Open fire!” Bellingham squeezed the trigger and the first bullet connected with Bacalou’s chest, tearing Owen’s blue jumpsuit, but failed to penetrate the creature’s thick hide.
Bellingham fired three more rounds before the creature lunged and the deputy by his side fired the twelve-gauge that provided enough power to knock it off course. Bacalou roared, shaking off the shotgun’s heavy blow.
Bellingham and the deputies retreated from the van, each of them emptying the magazines of their weapons.
Bacalou set its sight on the nearest human, which happened to be the deputy in riot gear, and then slashed at the barrel of the shotgun, its claws swiping through the metal like paper.
Defenseless, the deputy backpedaled, and Bacalou lunged again, this time shredding the bulletproof vest and slashing the deputy’s stomach and chest.
“Lacroix!” Bellingham loaded a fresh magazine into the pistol and then aimed for the creature’s head.
Three heavy knocks connected with Bacalou’s right temple, and three b
right flashes of pain followed as the monster roared. But it provided the needed time to pull Lacroix away before Bacalou could finish its work.
All the while Owen sat in the corner of his mind and watched terror and death wreak havoc. He knew that if the creature killed a deputy or one of the officers, any chance of reuniting with his family would disappear, so Owen fought back.
But his progress was slow. Some type of invisible force kept him from retaking control. He saw Bacalou slashing wildly toward Bellingham and the deputies, its rage inflamed and fanned by its own desire for death. Owen grit his teeth. “Enough.”
The creature was strong, powerful, but it hadn’t reached its full potential. This was Owen’s last chance, his last moment to fight for himself. “Enough!” Owen lunged from darkness, and Bacalou cried out in pain.
Light cast out darkness and Owen gasped, his cheek flush against the mud and grass on the ground. He half-heartedly clawed at the dirt and then rolled to his side, gulping air. The hot afternoon sun beat down on him. Sweat poured off him in buckets, and he lifted his trembling head to the sight of Bellingham and Deputy Hurt, their faces ghost white.
Lacroix sat on the ground, clutching the flesh wounds over his chest and stomach. “What the hell are you?”
Slowly, Owen pushed himself off the ground. “We need to move.”
“You need to be locked up!” Deputy Hurt said, gun gripped tightly and keeping his distance. “Sheriff, we can’t take him to the courthouse. He’d tear the whole place apart!”
Bellingham’s demeanor calmed, though he still aimed his pistol at Owen. “And what are we supposed to do with him, Deputy?”
“Shoot him,” Deputy Lacroix answered, his voice weak and trembling. “Kill him and get it over with.”
“No,” Owen said, pushing himself off the ground. He winced once he sat up, his head aching and the scars on his chest burning. “I can help you. I can take you to Jake Martin’s body.”
