The House the Devil Built

by Benjamin Hively

  “Questioning? He needs to be arrested. This is out of control!” Dillon bellowed, setting the items down on the hood of the car so he could join them at Mark’s police cruiser. Mark could tell they were both at the end of their ropes, not wanting to pack up and move again after such a short time, and he tried his best to console them that the truth would come out and the perpetrator would get justice.

  “Hey, Sheriff! Can I speak with you?” One of his deputies said, as he stepped onto the porch. Mark told the men to stay put. Mark listened to them converse back and forth as he walked away and as he reached the steps, the deputy just shook their head.

  “What’s wrong?” Mark asked. The deputy pointed towards the broken glass on the porch, where most of the window had landed.

  “Anything seem odd to you?” the deputy questioned, and Mark was baffled. It seemed like an open and shut case, someone had broken into the home to terrorize the men standing by his cruiser.

  “If someone broke in, Sheriff, the glass would be inside, not out. On top of it, there doesn’t seem to be a lick of fingerprints, just a few and I could pretty much guarantee it belongs to one of them out there,” the deputy stated.

  “Do you really think they would do this to their own home?” Mark questioned, in a hushed tone. He didn’t want the men anymore pissed off than they already were but if they overheard any of the current conversation, he was sure they would explode into a rage. He couldn’t see the men doing this themselves, as he had sat in church on Sunday confirming Terry’s guilt from the vandalism, and he knew that this whole situation could easily be orchestrated by Terry or his many minions.

  “I don’t know, but it’s worth checking into. I mean, do you really think a preacher would have done this either?” the deputy countered, “We’re almost done here, what should we do about the pig?”

  “Clean the damn thing up!” He was frustrated with the deputy’s line of thinking and headed back towards the men waiting at the car, “Don’t worry about the pig, we’re going to clean that up for you.”

  “What a nice gesture,” Ashton said sarcastically, taking a seat on the hood of the car, “And next time? Are we going to invite the entire town out for a roast?”

  “I can ensure you that this won’t happen again,” Mark said unsteadily, “We will find whoever did this and…”

  “We know who did this. This is a hate crime!”

  “As I said, I will speak with Terry again and figure this all out. Until then, get those windows boarded up and try to remain calm.” Mark said, getting inside his cruiser.

  “Wait, where the hell are you going?” Dillon asked as Mark rolled down his window.

  “Going to find out who’s missing a pig,”

  With that Mark pulled out the driveway, leaving the scene behind him. He knew of only one pig farmer in the area, and, as he drove in the opposite direction of the Boudreaux Plantation, the sugar cane fields whipping by him as his cruiser accelerated down the country roads. The air was brisk, the summer finally letting go of its humid blanket, and leaving behind a beautiful fall day. He passed through town once again and noticed Terry’s vehicle in South Belle’s parking lot. He almost pulled in to bring Terry for questioning but figured he would head out to the farm first.

  On the other side of town, beyond the expanses of sugarcane and soybean fields, lay the decrepit farmhouse owned by Quentin Daigle. The home itself was falling apart from years of neglect, the struggling farmer had sold most of his land to the bigger competition years ago, and only left him a few acres to tend to which, at eighty years old, was probably the best decision. Mark had met the man at South Belle many times, always wondering how he tended to everything alone, but the man was steadfast in his ways and was probably stronger than Mark himself. Quentin was tinkering underneath an old pickup truck when Mark approached him, and the man barely acknowledging his presence.

  “Hey Quentin, how’s it going under there?” Mark asked, squatting down to attempt a conversation. The man continued to work, only offering a “mmfph”.

  “Quentin, I need to ask you something, may sound a little strange.” He heard the man curse and throw down a tool before pulling himself out from underneath the truck. Quentin had oil marks all over his face and coveralls, and, as he stood up, a faint smell of liquor lingered in between them.

  “I didn’t call the law,” the man uttered, leaning into his vehicle and pulling out a flask. After taking a swig he held it out to Mark and offered up some of the cheap vodka. Mark declined and the man asked, “What’s this all about, Sherriff?”

  “I know this is gonna sound odd, Mr. Daigle, but I have to ask. Are you missing any pigs?”

  “Pigs? The only pig I see out here, is you,” the man laughed, “I’m just kidding you, pigs, ya say?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got a dead pig down the road, figured it was one of yours.”

  “Damn coyotes must have gotten ‘em. They like this cooler weather, ya know?”

  “I don’t think it was a coyote.”

  “Maybe the rougarou then,” the man laughed again. It was obvious to Mark that man was unconcerned with a missing pig and turned around to head back to the car, “Now wait a minute, let me go check the barn, I haven’t made it out there this morning.” Mark faltered at the truck and waited for the man as he watched him disappear into the barn. A few minutes passed before Quentin returned, blood covering his hands, and his eyes large with bewilderment. “They killed them all. Every last one of my pigs. It’s a massacre in there!”

  Mark rushed to the barn to clarify the man’s words and, just as he had said, the entire barn was filled with the carcasses of pigs; their bodies were split open, blood mixed with the dirt floor and hay clotted into mounds of horror. Mark stepped back out into the sunlight, his heart pounding from the adrenaline rush. Quentin was still standing in the middle of the driveway, staring at his bloody hands, and Mark went to reassure him that everything would be ok even though he was unsure if it ever would be. Up until then Acadian Springs had somewhat benign issues. Now it was turning into a nightmare. After washing off his bloodied shoes Mark returned to his cruiser, and again raced off into town to confront Shlepp, the only person capable of such an atrocity.

  NINE

  Terry Shlepp didn’t question why he was seated inside the Acadian Springs Police Department. He had already heard the rumblings from the deputies in the front as he waited for Mark to interrogate him. Terry had spent most of his morning preparing for the moment that Mark would ask him about last night, about the homosexuals on Jean Lafitte, and their Halloween decorations that were now a horrible mess. As guilty as he was, he already had his tall tale in place, as well as his alibi for his whereabouts. The air in Mark’s office was warm. Terry figured this was one of Mark’s doings to make the situation as uncomfortable as possible in hopes Terry would spill the beans, but Terry was going to stand his ground.

  “Can I get some water?” Terry asked, as Mark came into the office, a manila folder in his hand. Mark ignored his request, shut the door, and flipped the blinds closed behind him. Terry could feel Mark’s anger radiating from him as he sat down and opened the folder. He slid a picture over to Terry. Terry looked at it, a large pile of pig parts filling his line of vision and shrugged. “What’s this?”

  “You know exactly what the hell that is!” Mark yelled, slamming his fists on the desk, knocking over a cup of pens. Terry sat back in his chair.

  “I truly don’t, Mark.”

  “Bullshit.” He threw another couple of pictures at Terry, and Terry glanced at them. The images depicted bloody pig carcasses, one of which was hanging from a chandelier. It had been gutted from the looks of it, and Terry winced from the horrific images. He slid the pictures across the desk back to Mark and shook his head.

  “I don’t understand why you think I’d know anything about this. I don’t even understand what I’m looking at! Honest, Mark.”

  “There is a ton of charges that could be brought against you, Terry. A lot. Van
dalism, harassment, and animal cruelty to just name a few.”

  “Should I have a lawyer here?” Terry questioned him, as he became increasingly uncomfortable beneath the heat of the room.

  “Were you out at the Boudreaux Plantation last night? I’m only going to ask you once.”

  “No! I was at home with the family, ask Janis.”

  “How about the Daigle farm? Did you happen to stop by there on your way to the plantation?”

  “The Daigle farm? Why would I be at the Daigle farm?”

  “Look at the pictures, Terry. That’s why you went to the Daigle farm, to take one of those pigs with you to hang in those guy’s entryway?” Mark pushed, even more. Terry was so confused at the allegations being thrown at him. The only thing he was guilty of was destroying the men’s decorations, not butchering a bunch of swine and then hanging it from a chandelier, but he couldn’t take blame for any of it without taking the fall for everything.

  “I wasn’t there, Mark. Someone else must have…”

  “Someone who? Did you send someone?” Mark yelled, cutting him off. Terry sat back in his chair, trying to calm himself.

  “I didn’t send anyone out here, and I certainly didn’t do it myself. Mark, you’ve known me for years. I am not capable of this.”

  “You’ve been harassing those men since they set foot in this town. I was there on Sunday for your sermon and it’s in my right mind to charge you right here and now. Unfortunately there is no concrete evidence, but I will tell you this much, Reverend Shlepp. If I see you anywhere near their home or speak about gays in a negative connotation, I will be the one to put you in cuffs for probable cause.” Terry could tell Mark meant business and, without saying another word, he was let out of the office. He was frustrated that his friend, someone he trusted, was bothering him about the homosexuals that now laid claim to the Boudreaux Plantation.

  Once he was back in the sanctuary of South Belle he closed himself into the office and laid his head on his desk. The church was cloaked in silence, everyone was gone, and for that he was thankful. He needed some time to think, time to process all of the things that were running through his mind. He had nearly fallen asleep, the late night finally catching up to him, when the phone on his desk rang. Terry answered quietly, his voice cracking from exhaustion. The voice on the other end was surprising, even more so than the allegation of pig mutilation.

  “Can you come over, Pastor?” the woman said, her voice clearly shaken.

  “Sure, what’s this about?” the Pastor replied cautiously.

  “Marsh.”

  PART III:

  INTO THE DARKNESS

  ONE

  Terry’s departure had left a copper taste in Mark’s mouth, and his head was spinning from the hurricane of bullshit the day had brought. Never in his years on the force had he ever had to question Terry about anything, their friendship had grown exponentially in the last few years, and looked up to Terry as a mentor. The thought that Terry could do such a heinous act was weighing heavily upon him. He glanced at the pictures he had developed multiple times throughout the day, his mind becoming a nightmarish landscape of blood and gore, and, as sure as he was of Terry’s guilt, he couldn’t find a motive to killing all of the pigs. Quentin was not a part of Terry’s tirade against the gays, Ashton and Dillon were, but even still, he didn’t think the men were capable of pushing such a devout man of God to react with such malevolence.

  The whole situation was growing out of control, and someone was responsible for everything that was going on in Acadian Springs. Mark racked his brain trying to think of other suspects; hooligan kids that had nothing better to do in a small town or even the possibility of someone in the men’s lives that they had wronged previously. Mark made some final notes on the report he was writing and decided to drive back out to the Boudreaux plantation to ask some more questions. The afternoon sun was blazing bright and the temperature had risen, leaving the cab of the cruiser a baking oven. Mark sat for a moment in the parking lot, allowing the breeze to blow the hot air out. Mark had always hated the Indian Summers here, how even in the middle of December it could be a balmy eighty degrees, and had always wanted to see the seasons change. Trees never turned bright colors, they always clung to their green foliage even when temperatures did drop below forty. He had tried multiple times to talk his wife into moving, but, with their family surrounding them, the chances of it ever happening was slim to none.

  Mark noticed the fields had become extremely dry from the lack of rain, the sugar cane had begun to wilt, turning a tannish-white in the rays of sun. It was worrisome to him, He knew that the town needed the crop to survive, and, as there was no real commerce here, money wasn’t something that flowed down the streets. Most of the townspeople either farmed the land or worked in Golden Meadow, a nearly thirty minute drive from here., If farming was bad most people went without because not many jobs in Golden Meadow made it worth the drive. During Mark’s childhood many stores had lined the main drag through Acadian Springs, but now many were empty storefronts making the town seem stuck in yesteryear. Passing by the empty buildings, he began to wonder what had kept him here even as they started to close their doors when he was a teenager.

  “It’s a great place to raise kids,” his wife had said, right after they married and found out they were pregnant. Mark had begged her to move anywhere but here, anywhere that had a soul running through their streets, but she had simply said no. For a while Mark had resented her for keeping him here but when Marsh arrived, things began to change in his mind, and he knew that it had been a wise choice. Now, sixteen years later, the wise choice no longer seemed wise as he was beginning to watch the decay of the town, and the hold that Terry and the church had over it. Even though the kids seemed to enjoy their surroundings, Mark was growing more disgusted by the day.

  Even though the house had laid empty since before he was born, the Boudreaux Plantation was the most beautiful property in Acadian Springs; the lawns were always well kept, the flower beds changed each season to allow pops of color to surround the home. Although beautiful, it had always let the imagination of the kids in town run wild with urban legends. Now as an adult with access to old files, Mark knew the actual story of the house, and it was worse than he had ever imagined. He couldn’t imagine spanking his daughter, let alone taking a gun and ending her life, With the new found tenants that were occupying the same space, the story was now back in the forefront of his mind. Mark wondered if they knew what had taken place there, if the realtor had disclosed the nasty fact that a child was murdered in their barn and the father had taken his own life.

  Dillon was taping sheets of plastic to the broken windows as Mark exited his vehicle. The once immaculate home now was turning into a dismantled masterpiece, and, as he got on the porch, Mark helped Dillon hold down the plastic so tape could be placed in order to keep it from flapping in the wind. They were both quiet as they worked to close off the broken window. Finally Dillon stepped off the ladder and looked at him.

  “You came back,” Dillon spouted. His voice read as if he questioned Mark’s validity.

  “Yes, sir. I wanted to ask ya’ll some more questions if I could.”

  “Well, Ashton is asleep. He wasn’t feeling well.” Dillon sat down on the rock chair, surrounded by the remains of his Halloween decorations. Mark pulled out a pad of paper from his uniform and flipped it open, ready to start questioning the man. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Unfortunately, not on the clock.” Mark responded, even though the need for one was prevalent.

  “And I thought you guys didn’t do things by the book here,” Dillon responded, before excusing himself from the porch. Mark waited patiently, treading the wrap-around porch. He stepped over the decorations on the ground, taking in his surroundings. He had never really been on the property before the day he received the call about the vandalism, and had never truly taken in how big the entire estate was. Besides the house and the barn, there was almost two acres of pe
rfectly manicured grass with flower beds that hugged the house. A few oversized oak trees complemented the vast space, and next to the barn, a large arrangement of small palms and ginger interweaved with one another, creating a thick brush. Expertly done, the landscape seemed intrusive to the wilting sugarcane beyond its borders and as the wind blew through the fields he could hear the crinkling of dying leaves.

  “Nothing a good bourbon on the rocks won’t fix,” Dillon said, returning to the porch, “I have to hide the bottle or Ashton would flip out.”

  “Why’s that?” Mark questioned, as he watched Dillon down the entire glass in one gulp. The man set the cup on the railing and stared out onto the lawn, surveying the exact area that Mark had just done.

  “Don’t you watch the news? Not to sound pompous or anything, but do you even know who Ashton is?”

  “I didn’t at first, but I looked him up online. My daughter has some of his books.”

  “Oh, how he would love to hear that. That’s some stealthy police work you guys have down at the station.” Dillon said sarcastically, “We didn’t come out here because we thought the town was quaint.”

  “Oh? Then why here?”

  “Sobriety. His, not mine. The nearest bar is ten miles away, the closest liquor store is further. And as far as I am aware, ya’ll don’t have any drug dealers in city limits.”

  “Drugs?” Mark’s interest was piqued, and he sat down on a chair facing Dillon.

  “Oh for god’s sakes, yes drugs. Things are a little different in the big city.” Dillon laughed, sitting next to Mark. He knew this was true, he had spent a few weekends in the Big Easy; each time a whole different experience than the last. The romantic seediness of the city had gotten to him on a couple of occasions in the form of hurricanes and overpriced grenade shaped alcohol drinks, so he could understand how someone could easily get lost in the lifestyle.