The Curse Of the House On Cypress Lane Omnibus

by Hunt, James

  Owen paused just before the hallway in the back led into the dining room. He knew that voice. It was Jake Martin from work. That was his truck parked out front.

  “C’mon out, Owen! Let’s get this over with.”

  Owen quietly crept around the edge of the stairwell, his eyes falling to the baseball bat that had fallen from his hand when the house started shaking. Halfway on his approach, the floorboards creaked and gave away his position.

  He snatched the bat and sprinted toward the back just as a gunshot fired across the dining room and put a hole in the wall three inches from Owen’s head. He ducked into the den where Roger’s room had been located and crouched low by the door.

  Slow, deliberate footsteps moved closer. Owen had a white-knuckled grip around the slugger’s handle and he shivered, each breath rattling from the tiny convulsions from his body. The footsteps ended after a final groan from the floorboards and Owen forced himself still, holding his breath.

  A bullet blasted through the wall to Owen’s left, followed by three more shots that nipped at his ankles. Jake rounded the corner of the doorway and when he entered, Owen spun around, leading with the bat in his hands, connecting with the rifle.

  The weapon clanged to the floor and as Owen lifted the bat to strike, Jake charged, leveling both men to the ground. The harsh contact into the hardwood knocked the wind out of Owen, and elbows and knees struck the floor in harsh smacks as the pair grappled with one another.

  Jake’s meaty fingers curled around Owen’s throat, then tightened like a vice. Spit dribbled from Jake’s foaming mouth, his eyes wild and dark like the creature he saw out in the woods. Owen’s face reddened and he bucked his hips trying to push Jake off, but the man wouldn’t budge. Slowly, Owen lifted his right leg, wedging it between the two of them, and pushed into Jake’s gut.

  Jake held on for a few seconds, but Owen managed enough leverage to fling him off, and Jake was lifted backwards onto his ass. Owen gasped for air and he rolled toward the rifle, Jake making a move at the same time.

  Both men collided, their shoulders cracking into one another as two sets of hands fought over the weapon, Owen grabbing hold of the stock with Jake on the barrel.

  Owen yanked it toward him, and Jake came with it, using the momentum to drive Owen back against the wall. Pictures crashed to the floor as Jake kept Owen pinned. Both men’s faces flushed red, their expressions pained and angry as they locked like a pair of horned rams.

  Owen jammed his knee into Jake’s stomach and the man’s grip loosened. He then yanked the weapon hard left, spinning in a half circle as he stole the gun. Jake lunged, but Owen had a half second on him, and that was all he needed as he butt-stroked Jake’s forehead.

  Jake collapsed to the floor like a limp noodle, a gash cut across his forehead that leaked blood over his face and the floor. Owen held the gun loosely in his right hand, staggering to the left and right as he caught his breath, gently rubbing the red marks on his neck.

  Chloe screamed, and Owen jerked his head toward the sound. He jumped over Jake’s unconscious body, rifle raised as he followed the noise toward the master bedroom, and that was where he saw Marty’s father-in-law, the old man that Owen only knew as “Grandpa,” with a knife to his wife’s throat and Chloe unconscious in the corner.

  “Let her go!” Spittle flew from Owen’s mouth as he aimed the rifle at the old man’s face. His eyes looked grey and dull in the moonlight, but the steel shimmered brightly under Claire’s chin. “I will shoot you.”

  “No, you won’t,” Grandpa said, his expression stoic as he shifted Claire’s body in front of him as a human shield. “I doubt you’ve ever even pulled a trigger before.”

  Owen’s cheek was pressed up against the rifle’s stock as the small tick marks of the rifle’s sight offered a narrow window to the old man’s head. “The cops are on their way.” Owen took a dry swallow. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Bullshit,” the old man said. “Nobody’s coming. It’s just you, and—”

  Claire thrashed backward, thrusting both her and the old man onto the bed. Owen rushed to her side as she elbowed the old man’s ribs and the knife nicked her throat. Claire whimpered, placing her hand over the fresh wound, but scurried away.

  Owen aimed the barrel only a few inches from the old man’s chest as he lay helpless on the bed. He had his finger over the trigger, but the old man didn’t flinch.

  “You don’t have it in you, boy.” The old man lifted his head off the bed, his grey eyes locked onto Owen. “You don’t have the look.”

  The weapon trembled in Owen’s hand. His grip tightened, but the old man was right. He couldn’t pull the trigger. Owen loosened his grip but kept the rifle aimed at the old man as he took the knife away. He backed toward Claire. “Are you all right?”

  Claire removed her hand from the wound, blood smeared over her fingers. She hissed in pain. “I think so.” She walked around the bed toward Chloe and picked her up off the ground. “They knocked her out with some rag.”

  “Chloroform,” the old man said. “She’ll be fine in a few hours.”

  “Who sent you?” Owen asked, aiming the rifle at the old man’s head. “Who took my son?”

  The old man shook his head. “Boy, you have no idea the shit you’ve just stepped in.”

  “Owen, we need to call the police,” Claire said, clutching Chloe closely.

  Owen gestured the end of the rifle barrel up. “Move.” The old man complied and Owen walked him out into the dining room and had him sit down at the table. He handed Claire the knife and then retreated back to where he’d left Jake, keeping the barrel of the rifle on the old man until he was no longer in sight.

  Owen stepped into the den and the gun barrel dropped to the floor. Jake was gone. Owen spun toward the back door and stepped outside, scanning the yard, and then looked toward the tree line where the swamp water began. He saw nothing.

  He returned to the dining room and the old man was still in the chair, Claire holding the knife and Chloe. When Owen walked back in alone, the old man smiled.

  “Why?” Owen asked. “Why are you doing this to us? Where is my son!” Claire flinched from the sudden burst of anger, and Owen rammed the rifle’s barrel into the old man’s left cheek, cocking his head at a harsh angle.

  The old man grimaced. “Your boy’s gone, Yankee.”

  “Please,” Claire said, pleading. “You have children, don’t you?”

  The old man gave Claire a side-eye. “You’re not getting him back, lady. Accept it.”

  “No,” Owen said, shoving the end of the weapon into the old man’s head. “You tell me where my son is or I blow your brains out and toss you out in the middle of the swamp.” He gritted his teeth and felt a wild hate take control of him that he’d never felt before.

  The old man stared at Owen for a minute, and then the left corner of his mouth twitched upward. “There’s the look.” He smiled, revealing that silver capped tooth of his. “There’s the killer.”

  8

  All but one of the factory’s lights had been shut off. Chuck Toussaint’s office was still illuminated, and he sat in his chair, sipping a glass of bourbon as he gazed out onto the still quiet of the factory floor. He hated it when it was like that. He loved the noise and commotion of production. If he could keep the factory open twenty-four hours a day, he would. What he saw now was just wasted money.

  He set the glass down and checked his watch. It was a Rolex. His father had given it to him when he took over the business.

  “Time is money, Chuckie. And like money, you can never have enough time.”

  His father’s words lingered in Chuck’s head for a long time, rattling around in some of the blank spaces of his mind. It should be done by now, but neither Jake nor Billy had called. They were off schedule. And if there was one thing he hated more than losing money, it was being off schedule.

  A hurried knock banged at his door, and Chuck snapped his head toward the commotion. It was too late
for someone to be calling at this hour unexpected. He opened the bottom desk drawer and removed a .38 revolver and cocked the hammer back. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Nate! I need to talk to you!”

  Chuck grunted in annoyance and gently lowered the hammer and then pocketed the weapon. He flung open the door and a very haggard, very panicked real estate agent rushed inside.

  “I tried calling you, but it keeps going to voicemail,” Nate said, pacing the office floor in quick circles.

  “What?” Chuck hurried back toward his desk and picked up his phone. No service. “Shit. You’d think by now we’d get some goddamn towers in this fucking town.”

  “You didn’t tell me you filled the Cypress house,” Nate said blatantly. “Your new tenant paid me a visit today.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Chuck said, taking a seat and reaching for his bourbon. “It should be done by now.”

  Nate flattened his palms on Chuck’s desk and hunched over. “You need to tell me when you do that. I almost started talking too much. And you know I have a problem with that.”

  “Relax,” Chuck said sternly. “Have a drink. Bourbon’s behind you.”

  Nate had always had a heavy hand, something that Chuck used to his advantage. “I don’t need this kind of stress, Chuck, I really don’t.” He poured himself a glance, gulped down a mouthful, then exhaled. “Thank God we only have to do this once.”

  “Yeah,” Chuck said, his voice muffled in his glass as he took another sip. “Thank God.”

  * * *

  The late hour had turned Main Street into a ghost town. Crawl Daddy’s Bar shoved out its last few drunks and flipped the closed sign, then shut off the lights. The pair of Louisiana bachelors put their arms around one another, swaying back and forth down the sidewalk.

  “I don’t care what they say, Tommy.” The man hiccupped and then burped, leaning into his friend. “You could have played pro-ball if you had gone to college. Go ‘Dawgs!”

  Tommy slowed on their way down the sidewalk. “Woah, woah, Kenny, hold up.” He tapped his friend on the chest. “I-I don’t wanna walk in front of that store. Bitch inside might get us.”

  Kenny, with all of his eight beers, four shots, and two plates of nachos under his belt, scrunched up his face skeptically. “You mean old crazy Crepaux? You really believe all that horseshit?” Kenny removed his arm and stumbled right up to the door, the closed sign exposed in the window, and pressed his greasy face up against the glass. “Hey! You in there, voodoo woman?” He laughed drunkenly and then turned back to Tommy, who started to chuckle himself. “I bet she ain’t even—”

  A bright flash lit up the windows, and both Kenny and Tommy yelped as they shut their eyes and lifted their arms to block out the blinding light. Kenny fell backward and landed on his ass, scraping up his back and shoulders, while Tommy hunched over with his elbows on his knees.

  The light disappeared, and it took them both a minute before Main Street slowly filed back into their vision.

  “Tommy!” Kenny said, reaching out his hands and groping air. “Tommy, whe—” Kenny screamed and jumped when a hand touched his arm.

  “C’mon, man, let’s get the hell out of here!” Tommy pulled Kenny toward his truck down the street, leaving whatever shit that woman was up to behind those closed doors.

  Inside the shop, that voodoo woman, Madame Crepaux, stood over a wide, shallow bowl that took up the entirety of the card table she’d set it on. She sat alone, eyes closed with those white paint marks over her face, chanting over and over to herself.

  A mixture of corked tubes and emptied baggies lay discarded on the table. The woman chanted the same phrase over and over, her eyes shut tight and her muscles tensed. “Chulung-Oola-Awaola-May. Chulung-Oola-Awaola-May. Chulung-Oola-Awaola-May. Chulung-Oola-Awaola-May.”

  The words grew faster and she rocked back and forth. The water in the bowl was black like the night sky void of stars. It was still at first, but as she spoke the words faster, the water rippled from the center and outward toward the edges.

  The woman lifted her arms and head toward the ceiling and opened her eyes, her throat bobbing up and down along with the chanting that had grown as loud as screams. The water in the bowl bubbled but as she reached the crescendo of the chant, the water fell flat as glass.

  The chanting ended. Her arms and head lingered upward, her eyes open, and there she stayed until she heard the familiar rattle of bones cracking against one another. She looked down and in the water, she saw the creature. It snarled and hissed, those long, jagged teeth and black eyes fixated on her.

  Slowly, she lowered her arms and clutched the sides of the bowl as a smile spread across her lips. She’d been waiting for this moment for a long time. The reckoning was near. The righting of all those wrongs so many years ago was at hand. Now all she needed was the father.

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!

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  The Curse of The House on Cypress Lane: Black Water

  By James Hunt

  1

  It felt like a dream at first. A dream of darkness. But when ten-year-old Matt Cooley opened his eyes, the world was just as black as the nightmare that woke him. At least he thought he was awake. He shivered. It was cold here, and it felt like someone had plunged him into snow wearing nothing but his underwear.

  A weightlessness had overtaken his body and he floated through the blackness. Was he in space? One of his science teachers had told him it was cold and dark in space. But there were no stars here, and a numbness stole the use of his legs and arms. He shut his eyes, trying to force himself to stand, but couldn’t. And then he heard a whisper carried from an echo far away. He thought he knew the voice, but it was so quiet he couldn’t be sure.

  Where was he? Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he see? The last thing he remembered was… was… What? The move from Baltimore? The snake bite? No, there was something else, something he—

  A rattling echoed in the darkness. The noise was harsh and sharp like a bunch of baseballs cracking against a dozen wooden bats. The sound vibrated his bones, and it repeated itself, over and over, bringing a throbbing ache to his body.

  Matt shut his eyes hard, wishing he could cover his ears to block the noise, but his arms remained numb and useless. And suddenly he had the sensation of falling, a force tugging at the pit of his stomach, the same one he felt when he got on that roller coaster with his dad two years ago at Six Flags. The sensation stayed like that for a long time, then slowed and eventually stopped. And then, just as mysteriously as this darkness appeared and covered him like a blanket of ice, it was lifted.

  He blinked a few times, his vision blurred. The ceiling he stared at was different than the one in his bedroom. He rolled to his side, but stopped when he reached the edge of the concrete slab he’d awoken upon.

  Startled, he pushed himself back to the center. Concrete walls enclosed him, a narrow hallway offering the only exit. Dirtied and broken stained glass windows lined the top of the walls just below the ceiling, but only a grey haze could be seen beyond them.

  Carefully, he swung his legs over the side, every scrape of his feet and breath into his
lungs echoing like he was underwater. He pressed his palms on the edges of the slab, the tiny grains of concrete digging into his skin.

  He examined his body and found himself still dressed in the faded Orioles shirt and shorts that he’d fallen asleep in on his bed. He looked to his bare feet, then wiggled his toes in confirmation that he was still alive.

  The cold worsened, and Matt shivered as he gently slid from the concrete slab, hugging himself for both warmth and a sense of security. He walked through the narrow hallway and then whimpered at the sight outside.

  Rows of graves lined the confines of a short, rusted, and tilting iron fence. The headstones crumbled from years of neglect, the names and dates engraved in the stone no longer legible. He turned behind him to look at the structure he’d walked out of and saw that it was a mausoleum, towering high above the other tombs.

  A fog crawled over the ground, and the air gripped icy fingers around Matt’s neck. The world around him was a hazy spectrum of greys and blacks, void of any color. He lifted his head toward the sky, and his jaw went slack. Where there should have been a night sky, there was nothing but a grey canvas. No stars, no moon. It was like the sky was blanketed with permanent overcast storm clouds.

  He shivered again and tiptoed between the graves. The ground was cold like the air, and his weight gave way to the soft clumps of muddy swamp.

  A sharp pain cut through from the back of his head, and Matt winced, reaching for the pain’s origin. His fingers grazed something sharp, and he quickly retracted his hand. A prick of blood oozed from the tip of his finger, and then a tickle ran across the top of his head.

  Matt stomped his legs in quick hopping motions, his hands scouring his hair in search of the critter roaming his scalp. Another sharp prick hit his finger, followed by a crunch under his palm as he pressed down hard. He peeled his hand off his head and examined a squashed spider the size of a quarter.