by Hunt, James
“So why are you here?” Claire asked, tears beginning to roll down her face.
“To finish what I started.”
Chloe was crying. Matt remained quiet. She leaned over, covering her son with her body. Claire shook her head. “No.”
“It all started with him, Claire.” Chuck’s eyes were on Matt, his arm outstretched in a stiff line with his finger on the trigger. “And that’s how it’ll all end.”
“You’re not taking my son!” Claire lunged forward, swiping at Chuck’s face, and she felt her nails break skin on his cheek right.
Chuck screamed but didn’t fire his gun. Instead, he pistol-whipped Claire on the back of the head.
A throbbing ache radiated from the point of contact as Claire flattened to the carpet. Every few seconds, a stabbing pain split through the middle of her skull, voiding any attempts at lifting herself from the floor.
“Your family should have died after the creature took your son.”
Spit sprayed over the back of Claire’s neck from Chuck’s words, and she slowly managed to turn around to look up at her kids in the chair. Both were crying now, clutching on to one another. “It’s all right.” She spoke softly. “Everything is going to be fin—AHH!”
Chuck kicked Claire in the ribs, and she rolled to her back. The next breath sent a thousand knife-like stabs into her side that traveled up like lightning toward the base of her skull.
“Stop it!” Matt flung all eighty pounds of his body toward Chuck, who knocked him away like a gnat buzzing around his head.
“NO!” Claire stood and then immediately fell back down, hard. She twisted her ankle in the process, and Chuck slammed his heel into her chest and she flattened to her back.
Chuck aimed the gun at her, which was better than it being on either Matt or Chloe. “You don’t get a choice anymore. There is no other door, no other way out!” His lunacy heightened. “It doesn’t end any other way.” He raised his arm with the pistol high above his head, and the last thing Claire saw was his snarl as he knocked her unconscious.
* * *
Joy. Power. Hunger. All of it filtered through Owen’s veins as he sprinted through the woods. The scent of blood filled his nose. He tasted the metallic liquid on his tongue. It was primal, sensational, overwhelming and addictive.
Never in his life had Owen felt more connected to the nature around him than he did at that moment. The world had a heartbeat, and with every pulse, he felt something new. A tree, mud, water, a leaf, a falling branch, a rush of wind, a bird taking flight, the patter of insect wings flitting through the air. But amidst the life of the world, there was also death. And that was where the greatest flavors were derived.
Death awakened the beast and sent it into a frenzy, and Owen latched on to the experience. It was like an addictive poison with side effects of pain and misery. But to Bacalou, they tasted like candy.
Bacalou sprinted between the cypress trees, practically running on water, when a voice broke through that caused it to slow, and then stop.
Owen couldn’t hear the whisper, but he felt the creature’s reaction. It was like someone had pulled the leash on the beast. Its master had forced it still, and it whimpered like a distressed dog.
Another harsh yank, and this time Bacalou roared, sending Owen cowering. It snapped and howled, its anger growing wild. Owen shut his eyes and covered his ears, rocking back and forth like a child.
A force tugged at his chest, but Owen kept his eyes shut, and suddenly the world of death and misery and pain disappeared, and he was wet, and hot, and tired.
He slowly opened his eyes, finding himself on all fours. His hands and knees were sunk deep in the mud. His body trembled, and water dripped from his face and hair.
The sun had fallen, and a cloudless sky revealed the stars and moon through the branches of the trees.
“You enjoy it,” Madame Crepaux said.
Owen jerked away from the sound of her voice. “Wha—” He coughed, choking on his own dry tongue. He’d never been so thirsty before. “What happened?”
“You already know,” Madame Crepaux answered. “The creature resides inside of your soul now. It wants the same thing you want. The death of the heir of Charles Toussaint.”
Owen shook his head. “No, that’s…” The memories of the beast flooded across his mind. He remembered everything that it wanted when it took control. The death, the pain, the soullessness.
He looked to Madame Crepaux once more, this time noting the change in her appearance. Her voice was the same, but she was younger. Much younger. The wrinkles along her face had been replaced with the taut firmness of youth. The clothes hung to the curves of her body, and the golden flicker of her eyes had brightened. His expression of disbelief triggered her to smile.
“I was not always an old hag,” Madame Crepaux said.
“How?” Owen asked.
“The same power that created Bacalou now flows through me,” Madame Crepaux answered. “With the curse lifted from the house, I was finally able to retrieve Queen Samba’s gris-gris.” She glanced down to her hands, her eyes wide with wonder. “It is more powerful than I ever dreamed. She truly was a Queen of Voodoo.”
Owen pulled his legs from the mud, and with the aid of a nearby tree, stood, his knees cracking together. “My family. I want to see them.”
Madame Crepaux’s face saddened. “We always seek those we love near the end.” She walked closer, her footsteps soundless. Her hips swayed seductively, and her lips pouted outwards. “I know the pain that drives you. I know how much your family has been through.” She stroked his cheek, and the touch radiated a warmth that spread through the rest of his body. “That pain will continue unless you face it.”
Owen jerked his head away from Madame Crepaux’s hand. “Face it?” He pointed to the ground. “I’ve been crawling up shit mountain for the past six months. I lost my job, my car, my home, and when I brought my family here to get away from all of that, I met you.”
“You were brought here because that was the will of Bon Dieu.”
“I came here because I needed a fucking job!” The veins along Owen’s neck throbbed, and he stepped backward. “I came here because there was no place to go!” He flashed an angry, skeptical grimace. “There is no man in the sky, there is no great being controlling our destiny. There is us and the choices we make. That’s it!”
“You have seen so much, and yet you still do not believe,” Madame Crepaux said. “What is it that you don’t understand? What is it that keeps you from seeing the truth?”
“My family!” Owen screamed the words, and then felt his body collapse. His knees smacked the mud with a thump, and then a sudden burst of tears flooded from him. “My family.” He didn’t want to believe what Madame Crepaux was saying because that meant that no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, his family would never be able to escape the pain that they had endured. Misfortune was written in their destiny. And wanted better for them.
Madame Crepaux knelt at his side and placed a hand on his shoulder, again providing that familiar warmth. “Many people find it difficult to put their faith into something greater than themselves. But you must understand something, Owen Cooley.” She took his hand and cupped it between both of hers. “Your life is not your own. Your family is not your own. We are all born from a culmination of events that predated mankind itself.” She leaned close, and Owen caught the sweet scent of her breath. “You are a good man, Owen Cooley. And Bon Dieu finds good men to help in his cause.” She smiled. “He found me. And he led me to you. Let me help you. Please.”
The rage inside Owen’s heart calmed, and he sat there in the mud, letting this woman hold his hand, holding his whole life really, and chose to believe. “How can I be helped now?”
“I have found someone willing to trade his life for yours.”
Owen shook his head, confused. “Who?”
“Your father-in-law.”
“No.” Owen stood, his legs wobbling like a newbor
n calf, turning his back to her as he stomped away. “I’m not putting Claire through that.”
“His mind is nearly gone now,” Madame Crepaux replied. “He knows of the risk, but I must have both parties’ consent before I make the transfer.”
“I’m not doing that to Claire!” Anger rattled his voice, and he continued his trek through the woods, unsure of where he would go, unsure of what he would do, and then Madame Crepaux suddenly appeared in front of him like an apparition.
“And what are you doing to her now?” Madame Crepaux asked. “She knows it is only a matter of time before the disease that cripples her father’s mind takes him completely. She has accepted his life as over, but not yours.”
“And what kind of man would I be if I let him do this?” Owen asked. “How do I live with myself?”
“But that’s the point,” Madame Crepaux answered. “You live. Your wife needs a husband. Your children need a father. Let them have it.” Madame Crepaux gripped him by the shoulders, squaring him up with herself. “We must act now, Owen Cooley. I can only keep Bacalou restrained for a short time before it takes over your body again. And if that happens, then I do no not if I will be able to bring you back again. What is your decision?”
The beast rumbled in the back of Owen’s mind, its own desires clashing with Owen’s. He remembered the power, the thrill, the intoxicating scent Bacalou drifted over Owen’s senses. It drifted past his nose, luring him closer.
Owen closed his eyes, quieting Bacalou, trying to remember his own thoughts, his own desires. But the creature had embedded itself deep.
Inside Owen felt dark, lonely, afraid. But past the darkness and the stench of the dead, Owen saw a small beacon of light. The longer he focused on it the brighter it grew, and it wasn’t long before it took shape.
It was Claire, and Matt and Chloe. They were at the dinner table in their home in Baltimore. Chloe had smeared spaghetti sauce all over her face and was giggling about the mess, which had sent the rest of the table into a flurry of laughter. Smiles. Happiness. Life.
Owen opened his eyes and saw the fleck of gold in Madame Crepaux’s gaze, her hands still firmly gripping his shoulders.
“Even if I agree to this,” Owen said. “How do I convince Bellingham that all of this was true?”
“He must witness what will happen. Him and as many of his deputies as he can spare.” Madame Crepaux placed her hand against Owen’s cheek. Her palm was warm and smooth against the rough stubble of beard that had grown in over the past few days. “It is almost over. And when it is done, your family will have a chance to rebuild.”
After everything he’d been through, the small piece of good news should have brought a smile, but Owen’s face remained gaunt. He’d have to find a way to live with himself, and he hoped that Claire would find it in her heart to forgive him. Hell, he hoped he had it in his heart to forgive himself.
“We must go.” Madame Crepaux interlaced her fingers with Owen’s and tightened her grip. “Charles Toussaint grows restless, and in his restlessness, he grows more dangerous.”
And as Owen pictured the death of the man who brought him here, the origin of so much of his family’s pain, he prayed that Chuck’s death would be painful. He prayed for that more than anything.
Owen sat in a chair on the far wall of Roger’s hospital room. It was late, and Madame Crepaux had concealed them with darkness from the rest of the staff. Even when they entered, the nurses couldn’t see him. He watched their movements through a black veil, still fighting the beast for control of his own mind.
He focused all his concentration on enduring the pain of keeping the beast at bay. Madame Crepaux’s powers helped, but it was still a struggle. She needed time to prepare Roger’s body.
“How much longer?” Owen asked, not bothering to keep his voice down as it too was concealed by her magic.
Madame Crepaux kept her focus on Roger, her hands glowing with light as she hovered them inches above Roger’s head and heart. “Your father-in-law is weak. He must be strong for the transfer, or you will both die and the heir of Charles Toussaint will live.”
Most of Owen’s thoughts had been centered around Chuck Toussaint and his family and everything that had occurred over the past few days. His eyes drifted to Madame Crepaux’s hands and shook his head in disbelief at what he saw. Magic. The stuff of fairy tales.
He thought about the man he’d attacked when Bacalou had taken control. Did he survive? If he didn’t, it might not matter what happened next.
“Worrying will not help you now, Owen Cooley,” Madame Crepaux said, her attention still focused on Roger. “It does nothing but waste your energy.”
“When I was unemployed, I worried a lot,” Owen said, staring at the white tiled floor. “I worried about putting food on the table. I worried about keeping a roof over my family’s head. I worried about keeping the power and water turned on. I worried about bills, and payments, and making sure that my kids had what they needed.” He rubbed his eyes, suddenly dry from his staring contest with the floor. “I’d probably give everything up to just have to worry about those things again.”
Madame Crepaux stopped her procedure with Roger and quickly appeared in front of Owen, kneeling, that young, beautiful face staring up at him. She took his hands. They were warm, strong. They reminded him of Claire’s hands.
“The world tests us when we are most vulnerable and weak,” Madame Crepaux said. “It pushes us beyond our limits and what we’re capable of.” She shook her head. “It forces us to survive, but in that survival, they miss the most important element of life.”
Owen was lost in those golden eyes. They were transcendent. It was like staring into the eyes of god. He squeezed her hand back, a yearning filling his soul that he didn’t know he possessed. He wanted to know the answer. He wanted someone to lead him. He wanted something to believe in again. “And what is that?”
Madame Crepaux smiled. “Laughter, and joy, and the wild unknown of tomorrow.” She pressed her finger into his chest right where his heart was, and that same warmth from her hands spread through his whole body. She leaned close enough to give him a kiss, and then stopped with only a sliver of space between their lips. “I knew a man like you once, Owen Cooley. When I looked like the young woman you now see. He shared the same burden that has rested on your shoulders. The enormity of it is overwhelming. But know that in this moment, even when it is darkest, there is still life. And it flows through you.”
Owen closed his eyes. He pictured himself back in Baltimore, back with his family, back at his old job, back with his friends, remembering what it was like before all of this happened. Before the move, before he lost his job, before everything spiraled out of control.
But despite the concentration, and despite Madame Crepaux’s words, he couldn’t find that life inside of him anymore. All he saw now was Bacalou. It was attached to his soul, turning the joy of his memories to ash.
“I can’t remember anything good,” Owen said, staring down at his hands. Desperation dripped from him like sweat. It was repulsive, contagious, and when he stank of it when he was unemployed, no one would touch him with a ten-foot pole, so he hid it. He hid it with smiles, and jokes, and a faux-confidence that he knew would shatter from the slightest breeze of questioning. But he didn’t hide here, not in front of her.
Madame Crepaux cupped his cheek. The warm sensation returned and he shut his eyes, leaning into her touch.
“It does not feel like it now, but you will remember those times sooner than you think.”
Owen shook his head, his eyes still closed. “How do you know?”
“I don’t,” Madame Crepaux answered. “But I have faith.”
Owen looked past Madame Crepaux and at Roger who still lay on the bed, sleeping, his mind broken in ways that Owen couldn’t understand. He knew the old man was still inside somewhere in there, fighting to find his way back despite the disease.
Madame Crepaux appeared at his side. “I’m finished.”
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Owen picked up the old man’s hand and held it in his own. “We do it here?”
“No,” Madame Crepaux answered. “The house will have more power for me to draw on.” She turned to Owen. “Are you ready?”
“No,” Owen answered. “But I guess that’s just part of the burden.”
* * *
The dull ache that pulled Claire from unconsciousness was almost unnoticeable at first, but as the pain grew, so did her conscious mind. She opened her eyes, the imprinted patterns of the carpet zoomed so close she could see the individual fibers of the fabric.
The pain in her head sharpened as she pushed herself up, but the floor wobbled unevenly and she crashed back into the carpet with a heavy thump. For a moment Claire forgot where she was, what happened, but as the whimpering sobs broke through the raging storm of pain in her mind, it returned like a surging storm flood. “Chloe. Matt.”
Claire lifted her head, blinking away the blind spots that plagued her vision, and got a hold of her bearings. She saw the bed, the chair, the TV stand, and then the small cut out of the sink and the closed bathroom door. She got her feet under her and used the bed to help keep herself steady.
The back of her skull throbbed, the pain worsening as she sat down. She patted the wound, and blood shimmered off her fingertips when she examined the damage. She examined the room, the walls and ceiling shifting like waves on a beach. She was alone. Alone.
Panic gripped her and she shot up from the mattress, stumbling forward and screaming. “Matt! Chloe! Matt!”
Claire’s voice grew raspy and shrill, the veins along her neck throbbing and tense. She looked at the overturned furniture, the smashed lamp flickering on the ground, and then the closed bathroom door. She lunged for it, flinging it open, and saw Chloe tied, gagged, and bound in the bathtub.
“Chloe!” Claire rushed to her daughter’s side and untied the ropes around her wrists, then removed the gag. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
“He took Matt.” Chloe sobbed, the skin around her eyes red and wet with tears. “He said he was going to hurt him.” She twisted her face into a painful grimace and flung herself into her mother’s arms.
