The Curse Of the House On Cypress Lane Omnibus

by Hunt, James

  “Maybe,” Billy answered. “But we better be careful. After what happened, he’s bound to be trigger happy.”

  Chuck felt the weight of his own revolver tucked in the back of his waistband. It was a last resort, but one that he hadn’t ruled out.

  “Jake! It’s Billy and Chuck! Don’t shoot!”

  Chuck grew fidgety and Billy kept his hands in the air as they pushed through the stagnant swamp water. Billy shouted again, but the shack remained quiet. Chuck squinted through the tree branches to try and find any movement.

  “You alone?” Jake asked, his voice echoing.

  “Yeah,” Billy answered. “Just the two of us.”

  “I’ve got a bead on you, so you better not be lyin’,” Jake said.

  Chuck eventually saw the barrel of Jake’s rifle sticking out of the corner of one of the windows. It followed them to the stepladder on the east side of the shack, and then finally retreated when he couldn’t keep a line of sight from the window’s harsh angle.

  Water and mud fell from their shoes on the way up the ladder, and when Chuck stepped through the shadowed entrance, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings.

  The inside of the shack was bare bones: A cot sat in the corner, which was probably the source of the mildew scent that graced Chuck’s nostrils, a table, one chair, and an old iron stove with a top for cooking. No source of fresh water that he could see, and no food to cook. And Jake looked more ragged for it.

  “How the hell’d you get here?” Jake asked, the rifle lowered but still clutched in his hands against his stomach.

  “You blabbered about this place last month at the poker game,” Billy said, panting. “You got water?”

  “No.” Jake turned to Chuck and grimaced. “You said this was supposed to be an easy job.”

  “It was,” Chuck answered. “They didn’t know you were coming. What the hell happened?”

  “You said they’d be scared, that they wouldn’t put up a fight!” Jake rotated his shoulders, sulking. “So what the hell do we do now?”

  “Cops are looking for you,” Billy answered.

  “No shit,” Jake replied. “You think I’d come out here for a vacation?”

  “My lawyer was able to get Billy out on bail,” Chuck said. “You turn yourself in and I can get you the same deal.”

  “Like hell I’ll turn myself in!” Jake stiffened, and Chuck’s eyes immediately fell to the rifle.

  “It’s our word against theirs,” Chuck said. “You do exactly as the lawyer tells you to do and you get out of this with minimal jail time.”

  “Jail time?” Jake paced the floor, rifle still in hand, shaking his head. His muscles tensed. “No way. Not this Cajun.”

  Heat and fatigue drained Chuck’s remaining patience. He lunged forward, teeth bared. “Listen to me, you redneck prick! You don’t get a deal until you turn yourself in, and the only way you’re going to get out of this alive is if you do what I tell you. Got it?”

  Jake’s knuckles whitened over the stock of his rifle and his cheeks burned a fire red. “You think you’re still calling the shots, boss man?” Quick as a snake bite, Jake raised the rifle, and Chuck found himself staring down the dark barrel less than a foot from the tip of his nose.

  “Easy, Jake,” Billy said, the floorboards groaning as he took a step toward both of them. “We need him to get out of this. He’s got the money to make all of this go away, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Chuck answered, his voice wavering, his thoughts already wrapped around the revolver tucked in his waistband. “I got the money.”

  Jake puffed quick, short breaths from his nostrils, and when the floorboards groaned again from Billy’s direction, Jake aimed the rifle at the old man. “Don’t move!”

  With the rifle aimed away from him, Chuck reached for the gun, but the first tug made it catch on his belt. By then Jake saw Chuck’s movements and shifted his aim. With his hand still behind his back, Chuck sprinted into Jake, knocking both men to the floor with a loud crack from some of the wood planks that fractured beneath their weight.

  The pair grappled, the rifle wedged between them, and Chuck felt hands groping his shoulders, pulling him back. He flung his elbow backward, connecting with a thick hunk of muscle, and he heard Billy gasp for breath and the hands released him.

  Jake thrust his knee up, catching Chuck in the gut, and then bucked Chuck off him. Chuck rolled to the side, and Jake scrambled to his feet to try and fire the weapon, but the long rifle barrel made it awkward to handle in the tight space.

  Chuck finally freed the revolver from his waistband, and Jake’s eyes bulged from their sockets as Chuck drew down on him. He squeezed the trigger, the harsh recoil from the gun reverberating up his arm and the high-pitched whine of gunfire ringing in his ears.

  Chuck blinked away the gun smoke and saw the first bullet missed wide left. He squeezed the trigger again, and the second bullet connected with Jake’s gut, where it spread a bloom of red over his grimy wifebeater that dripped down the front of his pants. The third and fourth shots smacked his chest and dropped him to the floor.

  High on adrenaline, Chuck didn’t even feel the heavy impact of Billy ramming into his shoulder, knocking them over. Billy pinned Chuck down, keeping the hand with the revolver pressed against the floor as he reached for Jake’s rifle.

  “GAAHHRR!” Chuck flopped his body on the floor, trying to buck Billy off him, and his right knee grazed Billy’s ribs with enough impact to knock some of the wind out of the old man. Billy rallied and lunged again, this time landing a fist under Chuck’s chin.

  The blow chattered Chuck’s teeth together, and a hot burst of warmth flooded over his tongue as he tasted the metallic flavor of his own blood, and the pair twisted like snakes over the floor.

  Billy cocked his free left arm back and rammed it awkwardly into Chuck’s head and stomach. Chuck twisted away, the dull ache from the blow lingering at the points of impact. Eventually, Chuck rolled to his stomach, and Billy’s weight disappeared.

  Chuck turned and saw Billy’s backside as he scrambled toward the rifle next to Jake’s body. Billy snatched the rifle on the run and then jumped through the window. Chuck aimed for Billy’s back, but exhaustion from the scuffle stole his accuracy. The bullets splintered the wood around the window, missing Billy on his escape.

  A harsh plunk of water broke through the deafening whine from the gunshots, and Chuck scrambled to his feet, rushing over to the window and looking over the side where he saw nothing except the remnant ripples of the splash.

  With his body aching, he turned away from the window, clutching his ribs where Billy had struck him. Jake’s lifeless eyes stared upward. The hot scent of blood, guts, and fresh bowel movement emptied from Jake’s body combined with the thick, humid heat of the cabin churned Chuck’s stomach and he hunched over, spewing up the food he’d shoveled down just a few hours ago.

  Chuck wiped his mouth along his sleeve and watched the vomit mix into Jake’s blood. The sight triggered another gag, but he managed to keep the rest of his breakfast down. His throat and chest burned from the vomit, and he stomped away from the body, bursting outside to the fresh air and away from the scent of death.

  A gunshot thundered, and a geyser of splinters shot up through the decrepit floorboards. In a motion that was more instinct than practical, Chuck covered his head and sprinted back inside the shack, the bullets following him in periodic fashion.

  Billy was underneath, screaming as he fired round after round through the shack’s floor. Chuck cowered in a corner as bullets exploded through the rotten wood.

  “Fuck you, Chuck! Fuck you!” The shouts were spit intermittently between gunshots, and Chuck covered his ears, trying to block out both noises. “You prissy little mamma’s boy!”

  Chuck flinched at another gunshot, and then silence. He opened his eyes, shivering, but didn’t move from the corner until he heard the hurried swoosh of legs in water below.

  Chuck sprinted onto
the wraparound porch, squinting between the thick clusters of trees. The swoosh of legs faded, and Chuck circled the tiny catwalk porch and spotted a shoulder and arm between two tree trunks. He raised his revolver and fired, the bullet ricocheting off bark.

  Billy spun around at the sound of the gunshot, and for a brief moment the pair locked eyes and Chuck saw that silver-capped tooth revealed behind a snarl.

  Chuck squeezed the trigger again, screaming as the gunshots veered aimlessly into trees, then lowered the .38 in frustration, breathing heavily, wiping the collection of snot from his upper lip. Billy was gone.

  Chuck leaned back into the wall and collapsed on the floor. It was all slipping away. Billy would go to the police and tell them everything.

  In the growing afternoon heat, Chuck inhaled the stink of the swamp, and he suddenly grew hot with a hate that permeated through his bones. He hated this town, this state, the whole goddamn swamp. His eyes watered like a toddler in a tantrum.

  All of it was stupid. It wasn’t his fault that his family was cursed. It wasn’t his fault that Billy and Jake were too incompetent to get their jobs done. It wasn’t his fault Jake had run out here in the middle of nowhere and shoved him to the ground. He wasn’t dead set on killing, but Jake forced his hand. What choice did he have?

  Chuck glanced at Jake’s body. The blood had stopped pouring from the gunshot wounds, and a few bugs began to circle the corpse. He opened the revolver’s chamber. One bullet left. Chuck slapped the wood and cursed. He’d have to make the last bullet count.

  7

  The van’s brakes squealed as Owen stopped in front of the house and then killed the engine. A humid wave of heat blasted his body when he stepped outside and walked toward the front door. The windows were darkened, and police tape guarded the entrance in a yellow shaped X. Even in the daylight, the house looked ominous.

  Inside, the police had left their boot-prints all over the floor of the living room. A few items were tagged, but it was mostly left the way they found it. Owen lingered in the living room, half-expecting to find the home infested with snakes and spiders upon his arrival, the walls oozing blood and the floor covered in a thick layer of Louisiana muck. But the normalcy provided its own horror. It was like nothing had happened.

  Owen reached into his pocket and removed the picture Madame Crepaux had given him of the amulet. The drawing was old and faded, but it was a clear enough picture. The amulet was a simple green stone wrapped with thin strips of deer leather in a spider web pattern. But while he knew what the amulet looked like, neither he nor Madame Crepaux knew where in the house it resided, so Owen started with the living room first.

  Couch cushions were thrown from the sofa, chairs overturned, and books flung from shelves, their pages scanned quickly. After the room was torn apart and messy, he entered the kitchen.

  Pots and pans clanged against the floor, and Owen left a wake of opened cupboards and drawers as he traversed the long counters, working his way to the dining room. There he opened more drawers, checked closets and the china cabinets along the walls, finding nothing but cobwebs.

  Next came his bedroom, then Roger’s room, then the downstairs bathroom where he found a cluster of dead roaches piled beneath the sink, their paper-thin exoskeletons nearly disintegrated from the gust of wind when Owen opened the cabinet door.

  Sweating now, he hurried up the stairs and searched Chloe’s room. He went through her things more gently, knowing he’d catch hell if he left her drawings and art supplies scattered in a mess on the floor. The five-year-old was more organized than he was. Still, he found nothing.

  Owen stepped from his daughter’s room, and then looked to Matt’s room down the hall. He approached slowly, treating it like sacred ground. He paused at the door, and as he looked inside, he felt that ache from the missing piece of him that was carved out after Matt’s abduction.

  With his heart pounding like a hammer against his chest, Owen sifted through his son’s belongings. The gloves, the bats, the baseballs, the dresser, closet, under the bed, nightstand, desk, the bin in the corner, and after turning everything upside down, he found nothing.

  Owen sat on the edge of the bed and reached for one of the shirts on the floor. He held it delicately between his fingers as he slowly rocked back and forth, his veins coursing with anxiety. He pressed Matt’s shirt against his cheek, trying to figure out where else to look. But every room had been checked. And if it wasn’t here then… The property.

  The shirt slipped from Owen’s fingertips as he slowly walked to the window. Madame Crepaux had said the creature was contained to the property, not just the house. And he remembered Chuck telling him about a cemetery in the swamp.

  Owen pivoted toward the door and when he stepped out onto the second-floor balcony overlooking the dining room, he heard a rattle. Thunka-clunka-thunka. He froze, the noise so faint he thought he’d imagined it. And then it rattled again. Thunka-clunka-thunka.

  Owen turned in a half circle, the old bones of the house groaning in distress, searching for the noise’s origin. A black spot landed on his left arm and tickled his skin. Owen smacked it, and it fell to the floor. It was a spider.

  Another landed on his right arm, and then his shoulder. Soon they fell like raindrops clustering before a downpour. He sprinted toward the stairs, frantically smacking at the dozens of tiny pricks from their teeth that sunk into his skin like the tip of a bobby pin.

  Once down the stairs, Owen sprinted out the back door and into the open field, eyes shut and batting at the spiders he felt still crawling over him. But when he opened his eyes in the sunlight, they were gone.

  Owen spun in a circle, panting, checking every inch of him to make sure they were gone, then looked back to the house. Standing there, he could have sworn he heard the echo of a laughter in the distance. It was inhuman, malicious.

  Owen stepped toward the swamp and then stopped, craning his neck back toward the house. Quickly, he jogged back inside and toward the front living room closet. He stepped over the landmines he’d left behind from his search and found what he was looking for among the shovels, picks, lawn equipment, screwdrivers, and wrenches: a ten-pound sledgehammer that sat on its head with the handle propped at an angle in the corner.

  Owen curled his fingers around the smooth wooden handle and felt the fear shake loose. Between the creature, the house, and everything he’d experienced with Madame Crepaux, Owen felt like he was grasping in the dark at things he couldn’t understand. The weight of the hammer in his hands was like taking hold of sanity in an insane world.

  On a shelf at eye level, a small black box caught his attention. He knew what was inside. It was Roger’s 9mm Glock. The old man had bought it over a year ago, before he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

  Owen had fired it once before, and only once. He was about as proficient with the weapon as he was in speaking Spanish: zero. Regardless, he reached for the box and shoved the loaded magazine into the pistol. It clicked into place and he tucked it in his waistband, trying to remember everything that Roger had told him about the weapon. He wasn’t sure if it would even hurt that creature, Bacalou, but it made him feel better having it.

  Still batting at his arms occasionally, Owen lugged the hammer through the swamp, the hot sun beating down on his neck. Shade from the cypress trees offered a slight reprieve from the rising afternoon temperatures, and the ground softened the deeper he traveled into the swamp.

  A sudden chill grazed the back of Owen’s neck and he snapped his head around, expecting to find the creature, but saw only his muddy footprints. The deeper he walked the higher the black water rose, eventually stopping at Owen’s ankles.

  He swatted the insects that buzzed annoyingly at his face and neck, and that was when he saw it between a pair of thick cypress trunks. A slightly raised mound of land among the mud and water, the first three headstones of the graveyard in view. As he drew closer, dozens more appeared, creating a small lake of concrete in the middle of the swamp.

>   The tombs rested above the ground, the soil too watery for a proper burial. In the center of the graveyard was a large mausoleum that stood twelve feet high with stained glass windows at the top of its walls just below the roof.

  The structure itself was simple, boxlike, but the name Toussaint was sculpted meticulously over the gate’s rusted iron, and its raised platform gave the deceased an esteemed place of rest among the dead. Thick cypress branches from multiple trees intertwined above the tomb, its entrance darkened and cast under a perpetual shadow. Owen was certain there was something alive in there. Maybe the creature he saw, maybe something worse.

  Owen paused, his eyes darting around the swamp when they weren’t locked on that dark entrance. Some of the older concrete tombs had sunken into the soft mud, the ground slowly giving way to the weight of the dead through the years. The tombs were of different casts and molds. Surrounded by stone, he wondered how many sons the creature had taken.

  Every grave was a member of the Toussaint family, all of them part of the same evil that had taken Matt. And the sight of the graves, the knowledge of what this family had done, bubbled a rage to the surface of Owen’s consciousness. It was an anger derived from Matt’s abduction, from the pink slip he was given by the shipyard in Baltimore, from the following six months where his family struggled to survive as he searched for work.

  Owen lifted the hammer, charging for the nearest tomb, and swung all his weight behind it as the heavy chunk of iron smashed the headstone to pieces, flinging dust and bits of rock over the ground. He worked his way through the graveyard, waking the dead from their tombs and exposing them to a world that was no longer theirs.

  Sweat poured from Owen’s face, soaking his shirt that clung to his body like a starved animal. The more he destroyed, the angrier he grew. Hate flooded through his veins as he smashed tomb after tomb, checking the remains of the dead inside in search of the amulet.

  Paper-thin skin clung to the skeletons like Owen’s sweat-soaked shirt. A blast of heat and the scent of the embalming process radiated from every coffin, some of the bottoms rotted and leaking water. A litany of dead rats and other creatures lay alongside the corpses.