The Curse Of the House On Cypress Lane Omnibus

by Hunt, James

  Mr. Toussaint had brought over that same bourbon they’d shared so many years before, and to Billy it tasted just as good as he remembered. “My son will come to you one day in the future and ask you to do the same thing I did. Will you stay on and do that for me, Billy?”

  “Sure, Mr. Toussaint,” Billy answered, and then Mr. Toussaint smiled and they finished that bourbon together, talking about women and gambling and liquor until both were too drunk to even remember why they were drinking in the first place.

  Last night, he’d tried to keep his promise to Mr. Toussaint. But the result wasn’t the same, and he’d spent the past several hours in that cell feeling like he did when he walked the halls of his high school: a failure.

  The sound of the sheriff’s door opening and mumbled conversations drifted through the cell bars and pulled him from his memories. A few minutes later, the sheriff appeared. The old man put his fists on his hips and glared at Billy like a rabid dog.

  “Problem, Sheriff?” Billy asked.

  “You’ve got friends with deep pockets.” Bellingham gripped the bars with those old hands. Hands that Billy knew hurt from years of work, just like his did. “Who told you to go to the Cypress house, Billy?”

  Billy scratched at his chin which lay under a thick tuft of white beard. “Did I make bail?”

  “You did.”

  Billy flicked a piece of dirt under his fingernail to the floor. “The law says that if I make bail, I get to leave.” He smiled a little when he saw the sheriff’s grimace. It was nice when the law worked for you instead of against you. And it didn’t hurt that it also pissed Bellingham off.

  Bellingham removed a set of keys from his pocket, and the lock in the old jail cell clanged loudly as he turned the key. The hinges groaned as the door to freedom opened, and Billy’s knees popped as he pushed himself off the cot. A petulant smile creased his lips after he walked past the sheriff and toward the station’s exit.

  “Don’t leave town, Billy,” Bellingham said.

  Billy flipped the sheriff the bird and then squinted into the sunshine on his way out. The sunlight hurt his eyes and it wasn’t until he heard the horn honk to his left that he saw the black sedan. It was one of Chuck’s cars. The passenger side door opened, and Billy made his way over. Once inside, he shut the door. “Took you long enough to—”

  Chuck gripped Billy’s collar and pulled him across the seat. A drop of spittle landed onto Chuck’s chin as he wrung Billy’s shirt. “What the hell happened last night? You were supposed to finish them off. And now they’re going to the police?” Chuck shoved Billy away. “This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

  “Owen got the drop on Jake,” Billy said, smoothing out the front of his shirt.

  “And where the hell is he?” Chuck asked, his tone irritated.

  “I don’t know,” Billy answered, adding his own note of frustration. “He’s probably hiding out in one of his uncle’s shacks in the swamp.”

  Chuck massaged his temples and then rubbed his eyes. “I want this swept up before it gets anymore out of hand.”

  “And how would you like me to do that?”

  “This didn’t happen before!” Chuck screamed. “My father said I could trust you when this day came! If I’d known that you’d fuck it up, I’d have hired someone else to do it.”

  Billy sat in the seat, thinking back to the time when he knocked Lenny Calhoun to the ground and how he’d like to do that to the pissant sitting next to him. But the memory of Mr. Toussaint kept his hands from curling into fists and giving Chuckie Toussaint a few silver teeth of his own. “We just need to find Jake.”

  Chuck stewed in his anger, but after being unable to figure out a solution for his own problem, he went along. “You said he’s at his uncle’s?”

  “That’s where I’d start looking.”

  “Fine. Tell me where.”

  Billy gave the directions through the back roads, a smile on his face at the thought of Chuck’s expensive shoes and nice slacks being ruined after a trek through the Louisiana swamp.

  * * *

  As Owen held Chloe, Claire and Roger listened to Madame Crepaux speak. The longer the old woman spoke, the paler Claire’s cheeks became. Nausea spread from the pit of her stomach and outward to her arms, legs, and head. Everything ached and when the woman had finished her piece, Claire turned toward Owen, tears in her eyes.

  “You believe her?” Claire asked.

  “Yeah,” Owen answered.

  It was Owen’s steady tone that convinced her more than the word itself. Claire nodded and then looked at her father, who she wasn’t even sure understood everything that the woman had said. “Dad, are you all right?”

  Roger nodded, then turned to Madame Crepaux. “What do I have to do?”

  “Come with me.” Madame Crepaux took Roger’s arm and led him to another room in the back. “We must make your mind stronger.”

  Roger followed hesitantly as Claire let the news sink in. She walked over to Owen, who was gently rubbing Chloe’s back after falling asleep in her father’s arms. “If Chuck knew about this, then we have to tell the police.”

  “We tell them the truth and they’ll ask us for proof,” Owen replied. “They’re not going to believe us, and they’re sure as hell not going to believe that woman.”

  “So he just gets away with it?” Claire asked.

  “You heard what she said,” Owen answered. “We have until midnight tonight to get Matt back. We worry about that first, then we’ll deal with Chuck.” He stood and handed Chloe back to Claire, the girl still fast asleep even after the exchange. “I want you and Chloe to stay here with your dad. Don’t leave, not even if it’s to go to the police. I’m not convinced that the sheriff isn’t on Chuck’s payroll.”

  “So we just trust her then?” Claire asked, looking back at the room where the woman had disappeared with her father, her mind noting that she at least left the door open.

  “She doesn’t have any reason to lie to us,” Owen answered.

  But Claire wasn’t sure if she believed him. She noticed the expression of disdain on the woman’s face every time she spoke about Chuck’s family and what they did to that Voodoo Queen. Not that Claire was fond of Chuck herself, but there was something to be said about vendettas.

  She remembered when she was seven and told her best friend Betty Davidson that she liked Tommy Hursh, and made her promise to keep it a secret. Betty said she would, but the next day on the playground, Claire watched Betty kiss Tommy on the cheek and the pair “dated” for about a week before they called it off.

  Seven-year-old Claire was pissed, and she not only broke off her friendship with Betty, but kept hold of that rage all through second grade, just waiting for a chance to get back at her, and eventually an opportunity presented itself.

  Samantha Wurley spilled the beans to Claire one day at lunch that Betty was afraid of spiders. So that night after dinner, with the hot coals of revenge stoked in her belly, she walked to the oak tree in her backyard where she’d seen spiders crawling around, armed with a piece of plastic Tupperware she stole from the kitchen, to try and catch one.

  Unbeknownst to seven-year-old Claire, the spiders that she had so rightly avoided on that oak tree were Brown Recluse spiders. And when she reached out to grab one, it bit her hand, and she sprinted back to the house crying, her revenge on Betty Davidson the farthest thing from her mind.

  Vomiting, fever, and aches followed for the next several hours, and she missed almost a week of school. After she’d felt better, her father asked her what she had been doing and she broke down crying. She came clean and told him what she’d planned to do. After she was done, her father remained quiet for a moment and then wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “People hurt other people, Claire,” her father said, his calloused hands on her cheek. “But you can’t let the actions of others define who you are.”

  “What do you mean?” Claire asked.

  “You only acted this way because of what
Betty did, right?”

  “Yeah,” Claire answered sheepishly.

  “You changed your behavior based off how someone else treated you, and look what happened.” He leaned in close enough to where she could smell his aftershave, that oily, wood scent on his cheeks. “That’s not who you are.”

  Claire lowered her eyes, and all the rage and revenge that had accumulated inside of her transformed into shame and guilt.

  “Hate will eat you up inside until there’s nothing left in you but fear. And when you reach that point, there isn’t any turning back. Be strong, Claire. Keep hold of hope even when it’s dark.”

  And for the past thirty years, that’s exactly what Claire did. She just needed to do it a little while longer. She turned to Owen and kissed his lips. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Claire’s stomach twisted into knots as the door closed behind Owen. But she clung to the hope that they’d get Matthew back, and she stayed strong for the family here with her now. She set Chloe down in a chair and walked back to the room where the woman had taken her father. She saw him lying flat on a table. Madame Crepaux hovered over him, her hands floating over his chest. A low, throaty hum escaped her lips, and she slowed her hands to match the rhythm of her voice, then gently laid them on Roger’s chest.

  “This won’t hurt him, will it?” Claire asked.

  “No,” Madame Crepaux answered.

  Claire stepped to her father’s side and gently took hold of his hand. “Do you know what he’s sick with?”

  Madame Crepaux raised a finger and then tapped the side of her skull. “His mind wanders in darkness, searching for a light he cannot find. The deeper he walks, the more lost he becomes.”

  “What is all of this?” Claire asked, examining some of the elixirs, herbs, and odd jewelry in the room.

  “A collection of my knowledge.” Madame Crepaux raised the bowl to her nose and sniffed. She brought the bowl to Roger’s lips and helped raise his head to drink.

  Claire jolted forward, stretching out her hand in protest. “What is that?”

  “Gris-gris,” the woman answered. “This will help light the path of his mind.”

  “It’s okay, Claire,” Roger said. “I can do it.” He looked at her like he did on that day thirty years ago in her room when she’d told him about the spider. It was the strongest she’d seen him in a long time.

  Claire removed her hand and her father sipped the purple water from the bowl, some of it spilling down the corners of his mouth, until it was gone.

  “Not the tastiest concoction,” Roger said, grimacing.

  “Your mind will feel lighter, but your body will grow heavy,” Madame Crepaux said, reaching for her staff with the skull on it. She walked around to the head of the table and placed one hand over Roger’s eyes while the other gripped her staff. She tilted her face toward the ceiling and inhaled deeply. “Calla-Wem-Oola-Shan-Deelo.” She ended the chant with a heavy thump of her staff. “Calla-Wem-Oola-Shan Deelo.” Another hard smack between staff and floor rattled the room. “Calla-Wem-Oola-Shan-Deelo.”

  Claire jerked from the loud thump of the next hit, and she noticed that her father’s muscles relaxed, his mouth growing slack.

  “CALLA-WEM-OOLA-SHAN-DEELO!” Madame Crepaux slammed her staff against the floor and the entire room darkened, a rush of cold sweeping over Claire’s body like a frigid winter wind.

  The cold and sheer panic of the moment made her heart pound like a jackhammer in her chest. Claire turned around to look at Chloe, who was still sound asleep in her chair.

  “It’s dark,” Roger said.

  Claire whipped her head back around and saw her father still as pond water, his glowing eyes staring up at the ceiling.

  “You are between worlds now,” Madame Crepaux said, gently running her fingertip over his forehead in the shape of a cross.

  “Everything looks dead,” Roger said, a tinge of horror in his voice. “It’s colorless.”

  Claire squeezed her father’s hand that had turned cold as ice as his eyes wandered over the ceiling.

  “There are trees, and a cemetery.” Roger swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “The house. I can see it from the swamp across the clearing.”

  “The creature’s world is replicated out of the prison from which he cannot leave,” Crepaux said.

  “W-wait.” His voice grew soft, but excited. “I think I see something. Matt. Matt!” He called out like her son was there in the room with them. “He turned. I think he heard me. Matt!”

  “Grandpa?” The weak voice echoed through the room, and Claire quickly covered her gasp.

  “Yeah,” Roger answered happily. “It’s me. Are you all right?”

  “I feel tired,” Matt answered, his voice muffled and distant.

  “Matt?” Claire asked, her voice thick with grief. “Can you hear me?”

  “Only your father can speak with him,” the woman said.

  Claire clawed at her dad’s arm. “Tell him that I miss him and love him and that we’re going to get him out of that place soon.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as her dad relayed the message.

  “Mom’s there?” Matt asked.

  “I’m here, baby,” Claire answered aloud. She shut her eyes, whispering to herself. “I’m always with you.”

  “Roger,” Madame Crepaux said. “Ask your grandson the color of the sky.”

  Roger cleared his throat and repeated the message, and they waited, Claire wiping her eyes.

  “It was grey, but it’s closer to black now,” Matt replied. “Like night, but darker.”

  Claire looked to Madame Crepaux for an understanding of what that meant, but the old woman’s face hardened as she returned to her herbs and potions. “Is that bad? Good?”

  “Our window is closing faster than I expected.” Madame Crepaux dumped one of the potions into the bowl and then sprinkled green bits of herbs over it.

  “AHHH!” Matt’s scream pierced the air of the room.

  “Matt? Matt!” Claire shook her father. “Dad, what is it?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Roger answered. “I can’t see anything anymore.” The glow from his eyes began to fade. “Matt!”

  “Mom! Help!” Matt’s voice was breathless and panicked.

  “I’m here, baby!” Claire searched the darkness of the room as if she could find him.

  Matt sobbed loudly. “It’s coming for me again… it’s going to… to— AHHH—”

  The darkness of the room faded and the lights returned as the glow from Roger’s eyes disappeared. He blinked rapidly as the familiar dark brown replaced the glowing light. He looked to Claire when he was done, and she lunged for him, wrapping her arms around his neck like she did when she was a little girl. “Daddy.”

  “It’s all right, Claire,” Roger said, patting her on the back. “He’s going to be fine. He’s strong. Just like you.”

  Claire shut her eyes hard, squeezing him tighter.

  “Mommy?”

  Claire turned around and saw Chloe standing in the doorway, sleepily rubbing her left eye. She walked over and scooped Chloe off the ground and kissed her cheek. “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s fine.”

  “Is Matt here?”

  Claire kissed the side of Chloe’s head again. “No, baby.”

  Madame Crepaux handed Roger another elixir. “Drink this, it will help keep your strength up.”

  “Why couldn’t he hear me?” Claire asked, tears lingering in her eyes.

  Madame Crepaux leaned against the cabinet of potions and mixtures. “He is in Bacalou’s world. And Bacalou controls what he sees, what he hears.” The flecks of yellow in her eyes offered a light glow as she set her eyes on Claire. “And as Bacalou grows stronger, he will have more control over his world and ours.”

  Owen, Claire thought. “And what does that mean for my family?”

  Madame Crepaux’s face darkened. “More pain.”

  6

  Chuck grimaced as he lifted his Italian s
hoes out of the Louisiana mud, the black color hidden underneath all those clumps of grey. A mosquito buzzed around his neck, and he slapped his reddening skin that baked under the hot summer sun.

  Billy was up ahead, periodically glancing back at Chuck with a smirk on his face. Laugh it up, Chuck thought. He knew the old geezer had never taken to Chuck like he had with his father, and the feeling was mutual.

  “How much farther is this fucking place?” Chuck asked, his suit pants shin deep in the stagnant swamp water.

  “Not sure,” Billy hollered back.

  “No shit, old man,” Chuck said, muttering under his breath, losing his balance as another section of mud swallowed him up.

  The only positive Chuck had pulled from the long trek out into the middle of Bum-Fuck-Egypt was the time to think about his next moves. And so far every solution had its complications.

  Only three other people knew about his intentions with the Cooley family at the house on Cypress Lane. The first was his real estate agent, Nate, who he knew would keep his mouth shut out of fear of jail time.

  The second was Billy, but despite Billy’s disdain for him, Chuck didn’t think the old timer would rat. The old man was too stubborn and too proud. He’d think he’d be dishonoring the memory of Chuck’s father.

  The third was Jake, and out of the three, he presented the most trouble. He was younger, less loyal, and money hungry. It’d been why Chuck had picked him to help with the job in the first place. He liked people who could be bought. It made things easier. But even money had its limits.

  “Got something,” Billy said, stopping near a tree up ahead.

  Chuck caught up and followed Billy’s finger toward a sliver of a cabin on a raised platform above the water. It wasn’t any bigger than a shack, but Chuck saw its advantages. The occupant had a three-hundred sixty-degree view of anyone coming their way.

  Chuck wiped his brow, the sweat coming off him in buckets. “You think he’s there?”