by Hunt, James
“Did you see that?” Chuck asked.
Nate remained silent. He slid to the carpet. On the floor, he hugged his knees and rocked back and forth. He shut his eyes and shook his head.
Chuck reached for the pistol beneath the couch, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. He spun around, waiting for whatever tricks the old woman had for him next.
“I can burn you any time,” Madame Crepaux said, her voice omnipresent. “You will live an eternity in those flames.”
“A bokor set me free of this curse before,” Chuck said. “I can find another one to do it again!”
“I’m too strong for that now,” Madame Crepaux answered, her voice deepening. “There is no spell to stop me, no place for you to hide. No matter how far you run, Bacalou will find you!”
Knives dug into the skin on his forearm. He frantically pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and found teeth marks. Blood oozed from his flesh and dripped down his arm.
Another bite clamped down on his other forearm, then on his shoulder, then the back of his leg, calf, neck, cheek. Chuck screamed, swatting violently at the pain. He dropped to his knees and felt teeth on the back of his neck that paralyzed him. A hot breath tickled his ear, and then he heard Madame Crepaux’s voice whisper softly.
“There is no escape,” she said. “But I will not kill you. Your life belongs to Bacalou, and it will come for you soon. I only seek to return to you in kind the suffering you have brought onto others. I will bring you to the precipice of death.”
Chuck’s paralysis ended, and the darkness lifted. He checked his body again, searching for the bite marks along his arms and legs, but like the burns from the flames, there was nothing.
“It’s not real,” Nate said, his eyes shut, shaking his head. He started to cry. “Christ, there is no way that this is real.”
Chuck remained on the floor, sweat dripping from his nose, his body clammy and cold. He trembled, his nerves frayed. While the marks were gone, the pain lingered in his mind.
The first tear that fell was mixed with sweat. And then they fell like rain, pattering against the carpet after they dripped from his chin. The finality was inevitable. He couldn’t outrun the beast. He couldn’t stop the beast. His life was already wasted. So what was left now?
A rage bubbled inside of him. It was that primal rage, fueled by fear and survival. It all started with the death of a son, and if he was going to die, then he would take the one thing from the man who caused all of this to happen.
4
Mosquitos buzzed wildly, feasting on the backs of the deputy’s necks as Owen led Bellingham and his men through the black water. They’d been wading through the trees for hours and Owen had lost track of time, but he hadn’t lost the scent of Jake Martin’s body.
No, a scent wasn’t the right word. It was a feeling. It was a mixture of whispers, an unseen force pulling him toward the body. He wasn’t sure if the whispers were from Jake Martin, the creature, or something else entirely, but he was beginning to learn that the dead were restless beings. When they wandered, they were purposeless, haunting.
Owen stole a quick glance behind him. Bellingham and the officers trailed him closely, guns drawn. The deputy in the SWAT gear had survived Bacalou’s attack, the creature’s claws barely breaking the skin. The Kevlar vest was a different story though.
“I thought you said you knew where to find him?” Bellingham asked.
“It’s close.” Owen scanned the trees, squinting, his eyes growing tired from the sun and heat.
“Sheriff, how do we know he’s telling the truth?” Hurt asked, swatting at another mosquito near his neck. “He could just be buying time until he’s that… thing again.”
“Because he’s up shit creek without a paddle,” Bellingham answered, his tone short and frustrated. The deputies mumbled to themselves. “If we don’t find the body in the next ten minutes, we’re turning back. God help us if we get stuck out here after dark.”
“God help us if I turn into that thing again,” Owen replied, only loud enough for him to hear. And just when he thought that whatever force was pulling out here was sending him on a wild goose chase, he saw something between the trees.
Owen stopped, Bellingham and the deputies stopping with him. He pointed to the structure. “There. Up ahead. You see it?”
Bellingham approached, coming up on the left side of Owen’s peripheral, gun slightly lowered now. “Yeah, I see it.” He turned around. “Heads up! We’ve got contact.” He looked to Owen and then gestured with the pistol. “Go on.”
Owen hastened his pace, eager to bring this to an end and curious to see if he was right. The closer they moved to it, the more the structure was revealed. It stood high on stilts, the roof brushing the canopy. A ladder climbed all the way to the top, and Owen waited as Bellingham and the deputies caught up.
“Sheriff, look,” Deputy Hurt said, pointing to a bullet hole in a tree.
“Tag it,” Bellingham said, his eyes drifting to the top of the shack on stilts. “He’s up there?”
“Yeah,” Owen answered, and then lifted his wrists that were still cuffed.
“Oh no,” Bellingham said. “You’re staying down here. Hurt, you keep an eye on Mr. Cooley.”
“Shouldn’t I go up there, Sheriff?” Hurt asked.
“I’ve kept up with you boys this far, haven’t I?” Bellingham holstered his pistol and then grabbed hold of the highest rung he could reach and lifted himself up. Water dripped from the sheriff’s backside as he climbed, and both Hurt and Owen watched Bellingham until he was over the top and onto the deck.
Owen’s stomach tightened in anticipation. The voices and whispers had grown louder. Jake Martin was up there, his body decayed, his soul tortured in the afterlife.
That was perhaps the oddest thing to experience. Like being sidelined in his own body when Bacalou took over, he could insert himself into the souls of the dead. It was like being inside a movie that you’d watched a million times. You knew what would happen, but you were so close to it that it was like you were experiencing it for the first time. It was an added dimension of smell and texture in addition to sight and sound.
Bellingham poked his head over the side. “He’s up here. Hurt, I need some evidence bags.”
Owen exhaled, collapsing against the ladder in relief, as Hurt lowered his pistol and removed the evidence bags. “The bullets will be from Chuck’s gun, I know—” Owen gasped, choking for air as ice filled his lungs.
The world darkened with shadows as Bacalou lunged for control of Owen’s body once more. Owen buckled at the waist and turned left. As he did, he saw the gun barrel in Lacroix’s hands. A harsh sting of pain spread across his chest as Lacroix fired, and Owen was flung backward into the water.
“Hold your fire!” Bellingham thrust out his arms and quickly descended the stairs.
Shock took hold of Owen first, his senses overwhelmed. Two seconds passed, and then his mind finally caught up with the pain signals of his brain.
With his hands still cuffed, Owen thrashed beneath the water’s surface, choking on the black water as blood oozed from the gunshot wound to his chest. Distorted images of trees and sky filtered through the shallow water, and suddenly hands broke through the surface, lifting him from a watery grave.
“Christ, he’s bleeding!” Hurt carried him to a nearby tree and propped him up, the water line just below the bullet wound. He applied pressure, and Owen cried out in pain. “Sheriff!”
Owen coughed and suddenly tasted blood. He lifted a shaking hand to his lips. When he pulled his fingers away, he caught the shimmer of blood under the sunlight. His eyes widened as Hurt removed his outer shirt and pressed it against Owen’s chest.
“He’s losing a lot of blood, Sheriff!” Hurt turned just as Bellingham splashed into the water and rushed over, kneeling on Owen’s right.
“Owen? Can you hear me all right?” Bellingham grabbed hold of Owen’s chin and pulled his face toward him. “Owen?”
Owen saw the sheriff.
He heard the sheriff. But he couldn’t find the energy to answer. His head had grown incredibly light and his cheeks had drained of color.
The deputy who’d fired the gunshot kept his gun aimed at Owen, and when Bellingham saw, he knocked the barrel away. “I think you’ve done enough here, Lacroix.”
“He was turning into that thing again!” Lacroix said, his voice shrieking. “He would have killed us!”
“And you could have ended a murder case before it began!” Bellingham added his own shirt to the growing pile of bloody rags over Owen’s wound.
“Claire.” Owen’s eyes were half closed, his voice a whisper. Bellingham and his deputies faded from sight. He couldn’t feel the pain of the bullet anymore. Everything was cold and dark, but in the distance, he could see a shining light. It was shapeless and quiet, but he knew it was his wife.
And past her image, death called to him. Owen closed his eyes and felt the icy shroud of black fall over him. He drew in a raspy breath and adrenaline flooded his veins. He gasped for air, drawing in a rattling, painful breath.
“Owen, you still with us?” Bellingham asked.
And that’s when the shadows returned, and Owen was pulled away into the corner of his mind where he was forced to watch as the creature’s power strengthened. It was Bacalou that pulled him from the clutches of death, because the creature could control it. So long as Bacalou was inside of him, he could not die, not until the creature finished what it started.
Apathy glazed Owen’s mind. Bacalou’s power was an intoxicating drug, and with every new hit, Owen’s addiction grew.
Owen watched from the darkened corner of his own mind as Bellingham and his deputies opened fire on the creature, the bullets bouncing harmlessly off its hide. He tasted their fear, oozing off them like a frightened animal.
Bacalou knocked Bellingham aside, sending the old man splashing into the water. It stomped forward, backhanding Hurt in another forceful crack that knocked the deputy unconscious in the water. And then it turned to the final deputy, the one Bacalou had nearly killed before.
“Get back!” he screamed, unloading the shotgun into Bacalou’s chest, the pellets in the shell ricocheting off the creature’s hide like pebbles thrown against a mountainside. He hastened his retreat, and once the shotgun was empty, he tossed it and sprinted as fast as he could through the black water, his knees bouncing high and splashing wildly.
Bacalou roared, and the water bubbled in front of the deputy’s path, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Owen laughed when he heard the deputy whimper and then clapped in vicious delight when the gator appeared, its jaws exposed.
“NOOOO!” Lacroix screamed.
Bacalou turned away as the gator lunged forward and bit the deputy’s leg. Owen tasted the blood and flesh, just as the animal did. The moment filled him with frightened excitement. It was animalistic, primal, and intoxicating.
Suddenly, a fresh scent lingered in the air, one that was more intoxicating than anything else. It was Charles Toussaint VII. The creature wanted him dead. Owen wanted him dead.
* * *
After a few hours at the motel and two checks by the sheriff’s deputies, Claire couldn’t stay in the room any longer. The attorney had gotten held up in traffic in New Orleans and wouldn’t be able to arrive until tomorrow. There was nothing to do, and that inaction was driving her up a wall.
When the deputies arrived for their third check, she asked them for a ride back into town. When she told them where she wanted to go, they said they’d have to radio the sheriff to make sure it was okay. And after the sheriff didn’t respond, the pair sat dumbfounded on what to do next.
“Look, I just want to see if she’s there,” Claire said. “There is a lot that she knows that could help my husband. Please, I have to do something.”
After a few minutes of deliberation, they eventually agreed to take Claire into town, and one of the deputies stayed to watch the kids. She didn’t want to leave them, but taking them back to the shop didn’t feel right. She said her goodbyes, and while Chloe protested, Matt kept quiet.
The closer they got to the store on Main Street, the more Claire fidgeted on the edge of her seat, chewing at her nails.
“Are you all right, Ma’am?”
Claire jumped. “I’m fine. Just… anxious to get this over with.”
The deputy nodded. “It’s a shame what your family has been through.”
Claire smiled politely, but it vanished quickly. “Thank you.” She squeezed her hands together, twisting her fingers as the first building of Main Street came into view, and then felt her stomach float as the deputy pulled into a parking spot just one building down from Queen’s.
The deputy kept the engine running and then turned in his seat. “Ma’am, we weren’t able to radio the sheriff about the protocols for this, but I think it might be best if I go inside with you.”
“No,” Claire answered, quicker than she intended, and then backpedaled after she saw the deputy’s raised eyebrow. “I’m sorry, it’s just… I know that you’re looking to question the woman, and I might be able to convince her to come out if I go in alone.” She wasn’t sure if that was accurate, or even if Madame Crepaux was at the store, but she had a feeling that last part was true. “Please,” Claire said. “At least let me try.”
The deputy shifted uneasily, and then glanced at the storefront. He sighed. “All right.” The leather groaned as he turned back to Claire. “You get five minutes.”
“Thank you.” Claire reached for the door handle and quickly left before he changed his mind.
The store windows were black. She tugged against the handle, finding it locked. She pressed her face against the glass, which was still hot from baking in the sun all day. A click sounded at the door and she immediately pulled her face from the window. She reached for the handle again, and this time when she pulled, the bell jingled as it opened.
Claire hurried inside, shutting the door behind her as the deputy stirred in his SUV. He got out of the car, and Claire locked the door. Slowly, she stepped deeper into the store, passing the strange trinkets and potions stacked on shelves. “Hello?”
Only silence answered, and Claire pressed forward slowly, her eyes beginning to adjust to the darkness. She walked to the back room where her father had been strapped down. Absentmindedly, she reached for the cheek where he’d hit her.
“Your father still loves you more than anything.”
Claire spun around, the voice tickling the hairs on the back of her neck. She jumped at the sight of the young woman with glowing yellow eyes. “Madame Crepaux?”
Madame Crepaux smiled. “Yes.”
Claire shook her head in disbelief. “How… Is that possible?”
“Voodoo transcends time itself,” Madame Crepaux answered.
While the woman in front of her may be able to turn back time, Claire couldn’t, and what she had left was running out. She lunged forward. “The police think Owen killed people.” She took hold of Madame Crepaux’s hand. “You have to help me clear his name. He didn’t do what they think he did.”
“I know what the police want,” Madame Crepaux said, her eyes glowing a golden hue now. “But what the police do will not matter.”
Claire frowned. “What are you talking about? They’re taking him to the courthouse to file charges!” But her words fell on deaf ears as Madame Crepaux turned to leave. “Stop!” Claire jumped in front of her and swelled with anger. She thrust a finger in Madame Crepaux’s face. “There are police outside. You help me or I let them in.”
Madame Crepaux looked from Claire’s finger, then to the windows out front. “The police cannot stop me.” She turned to Claire. “You cannot stop me.” Her eyes pulsated with a flash of gold. “Your husband knew the price of your son’s return.”
“Price?” Claire asked. “What price?”
Madame Crepaux sidestepped Claire, but Claire snatched hold of her arm, and Claire’s hand burned from the contact.
Claire hissed at the
pain, but when she checked her palm, there was no redness or marks or scars. Madame Crepaux’s eyes flickered again with that golden flare, and Claire felt the cold in the room intensify.
“I understand the sacrifices that your family has made,” Madame Crepaux said. “But you have your son back. Be thankful for that.”
Claire circled Madame Crepaux hesitantly, again trying to block her path towards the front door. Not that Claire was sure the woman even needed to use doors anymore.
“You said my husband knew the price,” Claire said. “I want to know what he paid.”
Madame Crepaux regarded Claire with those glowing, golden eyes, and the darkness around her pulsated outward from her body, as if her very presence disturbed darkness.
“What happens to Owen?” Claire asked.
Madame Crepaux lifted her hands to her waist, palms facing upward. “The world is full of small parts that make a greater whole in the balance of life and death.” In her right hand was a small ball of light, in the left darkness, like a black hole. “But because of Bacalou and the Toussaints, that balance is in jeopardy.”
The hot, bright light was pulled apart by the black mass, and the light dimmed, growing smaller while the darkness grew larger.
Claire’s thoughts wandered to the darker corners of her mind. The places she went after Matt was taken and everything she imagined that her son was going through alone. But there was an added dimension to all those bad thoughts, a texture.
“You can feel it,” Madame Crepaux said, her eyes glowing an even richer gold than before. “When Death tips the scales, it darkens everyone, everywhere.” Madame Crepaux stepped closer, the dark mass still absorbing light. “I have felt the pain of people halfway across the world, simply because of the dark forces here. I have heard their cries, their pleas for mercy, but the darkness does not care of their pain, or their pleas.”
Claire collapsed to her knees, her mind hazy and dizzy. “Stop.” Her voice was weak, quiet. “Please.” All of the bad thoughts worsened, and she looked down at her hands, which had weathered and greyed. They were the hands of an old woman, and when she brought her fingertips to her face, she felt the wrinkled skin of her cheek.
