The Curse Of the House On Cypress Lane Omnibus

by Hunt, James

  A tight, tingling feeling formed in his groin and he wiggled on the chair. He’d downed three bottles of water and two portions of applesauce since he’d arrived at the hospital, and now all that liquid was begging to be released.

  “Deputy?” Owen gestured to the bathroom, and the officer walked over and removed the cuffs, escorting him all the way to the restroom’s door. For a second, Owen thought the man was going to walk in with him, but he remained at the door and just kept the door open.

  Owen flexed the wrist now free from the cuffs and reveled in the relief that it was gone. He peed, flushed, and then went to wash his hands. But the moment his fingers touched the water, a burning pain seared in his chest and stomach. Owen hissed in pain and clutched the sides of the sink as the deputy burst inside.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Owen shook his head. “My chest. It… burns.”

  “Just hold on, I’ll get the doctor.” The deputy ran into the hall, shouting.

  Owen looked down to his chest and then gently fingered one of the raised scars where the creature had stabbed him. He touched it, and another jolt of pain rushed through him so fast and hard that his mind dizzied and he tightened his grip on the sink.

  The pain subsided a little, and Owen blinked at his reflection in the mirror when something flashed. He shook his head, eyes shut and rolling in their sockets. The burning returned a little bit, and he tasted sweat on his lips.

  Owen looked at his reflection once more, examining his face, shaking off what he saw as nothing more than a response from the pain. His mind was playing tricks on him, that was all. But then as he stared into his reflection, his eyes darkened and his skin broke into cracked, fleshy scales that turned grey. His mouth widened and his teeth grew sharp and long and jagged. “NO!” He shut his eyes and turned away, hearing the creature’s laugh echo in his mind.

  With his eyes still closed, he sprinted for the door but slammed into the deputy’s body, who quickly spun him back around against the wall and pinned his arms behind his back.

  “Calm down, buddy,” The deputy said.

  “No!” Owen thrashed against the officer’s hold, but he was too weak to break free. “I’m not that thing! I’m not!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” the deputy asked, and the cuffs clicked into place. He spun Owen around, who caught another glimpse of his reflection before being forced back into the hallway and saw that his face had returned to normal. But as he walked down the hospital hallway, escorted by the deputy, he heard a distinct rattling. This time, the noise came from within, and he heard the low growl of Bacalou in the back of his mind. It was finally free. And it was hungry.

  The Curse of the House on Cypress Lane: Bacalou's Revenge- Book 2

  By James Hunt

  150 Years Ago

  Clouds covered the night sky and drifted lazily over the stars and the moon. Underneath the peaceful night, the Louisiana swamp sat still and quiet. Darkened waters flowed between the trees, which stretched to the horizon. But amidst the wild, man had already started to tame the land.

  Lights burned from a small town of trappers and loggers. Dirt roads and log houses had replaced the reedy swamps and thick cypress trees. A group of settlers had gathered outside a house, a cloud of disdain and anger growing above them.

  But away from the settlement, far on the outskirts and nestled in the swamp, was another home. It was small, and poorly built. Candlelight flickered in the windows, and smoke plumed from the chimney. A woman cried, her grief disrupting the peaceful night. Here, another cloud had started to form. Death.

  A young girl lay in bed. Blood had dried at the corners of her mouth and stained the white nightgown that she’d been bedridden in for the past three days. She no longer drank, no longer ate. Her parents had tried everything. The doctor in town had told them to make her as comfortable as possible, but her father refused to watch his daughter die. So he found the woman the townspeople had whispered about. He was told that she could save those on the brink of death.

  People who were fortunate enough to never need her services called her a witch, a devil worshiper. But to those that she had saved, she was known by another name. The Queen.

  From the stories and descriptions of the townspeople, you would have thought her an old woman, hunched over and fragile. You probably would have pictured her with an unsightly face, marked with welts, scars, and wrinkled by the fleeting years of time.

  But the woman that knelt at the foot of the young girl’s bed was nothing like the rumors. A face of beauty framed a pair of luminous green eyes. The robes she wore clung to the curves of her body, and while much of her skin was covered, her exposed hands were soft as silk.

  “She doesn’t have much time left.” Queen Samba closed her eyes and lifted her hand to the ceiling. An invisible force grew heavy against her palm. She looked to the parents, the mother clutching her husband’s arm. They reeked of fear, while their daughter reeked of death. Baron Samedie was close.

  “Can you save her?” the father asked, his voice shaking as the mother cried into his chest.

  Queen Samba examined the girl’s pale skin and the lips that had turned a light shade of blue, almost violet. She turned toward the parents. A small amulet hung from her neck. The amber centered in the leather strap glowed. “The price to save your daughter’s life will come at the cost of another.”

  The father stepped forward. “If it’s a life you need, then take mine.”

  “No!” the mother cried, clawing at her husband’s chest, which he gently removed. He kissed her and after he pulled away she collapsed into a chair, hunched over in grief.

  The father stiffened, but fought back tears. “Do what you must.”

  “Very well.” Queen Samba took the father’s hand and guided him to his daughter’s bedside. She interlaced the father’s fingers with the child’s, and then cupped her hands over both of theirs. She closed her eyes and lifted her head toward the sky, toward Baron Samedie, who waited for the child’s soul.

  “La-kalla-ooo-way.” The queen spoke softly, letting her tone rumble through her bones and outward to her hands. The father shuddered while the girl remained still. She drew in a breath. “La-kalla-ooo-way.” The room tremored, the very walls of the house shaking.

  The piece of amber around Queen Samba’s neck glowed brightly. The mother had lowered herself to her knees, her hands clutched together and her eyes shut hard, tears leaking from the corners as she recited the Lord’s prayer.

  Queen Samba opened her eyes and she saw Baron Samedie, his skeleton cloaked in black robes, those empty eyes fixated upon the little girl. She lifted her hand up toward him, quickly repeating the incantation. “La-kalla-ooo-way! La-kalla-ooo-way! LA-KALLA-OOO-WAY!”

  The amber flashed into a blinding light, forcing the father to look away. But the Queen kept hold of his hand and his daughter’s. Slowly, the father’s life drained from his veins and passed through the Queen. Moments of hope, joy, fear, even his darkest secrets and desires. All of it was channeled through her and offered to Baron Samedie as a sacrifice.

  As life slipped away from him, the father aged. His cheeks grew sullen. His jet-black hair faded to grey, then white. Skin sagged and wrinkled, and the taut muscles along his body slackened. Queen Samba brought the father to the brink, and then stopped, leaving only a sliver of life.

  “Be gone!” Queen Samba yelled, dismissing Baron Samedie with a flick of her wrist. “You have had your fill tonight! Leave these souls in peace.”

  Content, Baron Samedie slowly dissolved back into his realm. The father’s fingers slipped from the Queen’s and he collapsed to the floor. He examined his frail and weathered hands, then looked to the Queen. “What…did you do?”

  Queen Samba rose, the amber around her neck no longer glowing, and sweat glistened over her skin. “Your daughter is spared, but Baron Samedie will return for you. It could be tomorrow, or it could be years from now.” She looked to the girl in bed. Color had returned to her
cheeks, and her breathing had soothed.

  The girl woke, and lifted her head. “Mommy? Daddy?”

  Both the father and mother rushed to their daughter’s side, throwing their arms around their child. Their tears of grief and pain were now of joy. The mother turned back to Queen Samba, who lingered at the door. “Thank you.”

  Queen Samba nodded, and then left. She collected no payment, nor did she ask for one. When people sought her powers, she helped them restore balance to their lives. That was her purpose. That was Bon Dieu’s will.

  For years, the Queen had devoted her time and practice to the study of Voodoo. Those years of tireless work had transformed her body and mind into a vessel for the spirits created by Bon Dieu. It was a privilege to be such a vessel, and she understood the rarity of having such influence in this world. But as powerful as she was, Queen Samba could not save every person, nor every child.

  The hour trek through the swamp passed quickly, and Queen Samba emerged from the cypress trees and dangling Spanish moss with a smile.

  Across a field of tall reeds and grass that drifted lazily in the breeze were the glow of candles in the windows of the two-story house she called home. Inside was her family, the disciples that had come to learn the ways of Voodoo and treat the sick and damned with no other place to go. It was a house full of life and warmth.

  But of all her family, the most precious of them was waiting for her on the porch as she walked up the front steps.

  “Maman!” Isadora looked up from her book and brightened with a smile. She quickly jumped from her chair and sprinted to her mother.

  Queen Samba smiled as her daughter wrapped her arms around her neck. “My sweet child!” She kissed Isadora on the cheek. “What are you doing up so late?”

  Isadora lifted the book still clutched in her hand. “I was learning more about Bon Dieu, and how he created the spirits for us to communicate with.” Isadora pointed to the same script that Samba had studied so many years ago. “He brought life to trees, and the water, and even us!” She smiled, those beautiful hazel eyes reflecting the candlelight glow.

  Samba brushed Isadora’s hair behind her ear. “You will become a great Queen one day, my darling.”

  Isadora jumped excitedly, waving her arms. “Will I have all of your powers? Will I be able to control the spirits?”

  Samba laughed and gently lowered her daughter’s hands. “Perhaps.” She leaned in closer. “But only if you respect them.” She opened her palm, and a tiny ball of green light danced like fire. “But you must always control it, because if you let it, it will consume you.” She closed her fist and the fire was snuffed out.

  “Maman!” Isadora pointed toward the dirt path that led from their house to the road, her eyes wide with fear.

  Samba turned and saw torches burning on the horizon, held by the fists of angry men. She quickly ushered Isadora inside. “Wake the others, child. Hurry!”

  The girl sprinted away, taking the book with her as Samba eyed the mob marching toward her. The father of the boy had corralled the townspeople at last, and now he had come to destroy her. He had promised he would.

  Fear and ignorance caught like wildfire. And now Charles Toussaint had brought the fire to her house, ready to burn everything and everyone that she loved. She had held on to hope that he wouldn’t be able to convince so many to join him. She was saddened to discover that she was wrong.

  Queen Samba rushed inside and found her disciples awake, their eyes frantic, clawing at her robe.

  “Queen! What do we do?”

  “Why are they coming? What have we done?”

  “The Great Bon Dieu has forgotten us!”

  Queen Samba held up her hands, and all fell silent. She looked to her followers, their eyes and ears eager for comfort. “Bon Dieu will never forget us, even when we forget him.” She cast a harrowing glare at Damas, who’d spoken the last words, and he cowered, but then Samba placed a finger underneath his chin and raised his eyes toward her. “He has not left you.”

  The young man and the others nodded, their confidence growing. Queen Samba pulled the four of them close, her green eyes providing an unearthly glow. “Move all of the sick and ill from their beds and hide in the swamp. Wait there until these men have gone. Take my scrolls, and books, and the clothes on your back. There is no time for anything else.”

  “What of young Isadora?” Damas asked.

  Queen Samba turned to the mob out front. She knew what Charles Toussaint wanted, but she would not let him have it.

  “Queen?” Damas asked, gently prodding her arm.

  Samba faced her followers. “She will go with you, and you will keep her safe. I trust you, Damas. But no matter what, you do not give her up, understand? No matter what the man chooses to do to me. Do not give her up.” She squeezed his arms tight. “Say it.”

  “I-I won’t give her up,” Damas answered. “No m-matter what.”

  Samba kissed his forehead and then jumped into action, helping move those that were still under her charge. Old, young, black, white, men, women, children, there were all walks of life that sought shelter under her roof. She helped thieves and monks up from their beds. She stirred whores and teachers, drunkards and craftsmen.

  All of them fled out the back, Samba pushing them toward safety, her faithful followers leading them into the swamp. As the last few patients were helped down the stairs, Isadora lingered on the back porch, tears streaming down her face, with Damas trying to pull her away as the torch lights grew brighter out front. “Maman! Don’t leave me, Maman!”

  Samba rushed to her daughter’s side, kissing her forehead as she cupped the little girl’s cheeks. “My sweet girl, you will never be without me.”

  Isadora sniffled and then threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “I don’t want to go without you, Maman. I’m scared.”

  Samba squeezed her daughter tight. “You are strong, Isadora. And I promise you that we will see each other again. No matter what.”

  Isadora whimpered, but nodded as Damas took her hand. She stretched out her arm, her eyes locked onto her mother, crying again. “I love you, Maman!”

  If a heart could break, then Samba’s split in two at her daughter’s words. Her lip quivered, but she steadied her voice. “I love you too!” She waited until she could no longer see them in the darkness, and by then the wolves were howling at her front door.

  “Kill the witch!”

  “Burn her!”

  “She’s nothing more than a devil worshiper!”

  “Send her back to the hell she came from!”

  A heavy thud hit the front door that buckled the wood. It was followed by another, then another, and finally the frame cracked and the door flung inward, slamming against the wall. A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette filled the doorway. Torches flickered behind him like the flames of hell.

  Charles Toussaint entered, fists clenched at his sides, his expression of hate and disgust hardened like the steel rail of train tracks. “I told you I would come, woman.” He glanced around at the house, snarling like a rabid dog. “I had to pay off a lot of people to find this place.”

  Queen Samba stood in the living room, the glow of the torches illuminating her face and casting long shadows behind her. “I did what I could for your boy.” Her voice softened as she tried to reach past his calloused grief and anger. “Treasure the memories you had with your son. Do not soil them with such destruction now.”

  The wooden floorboards bent and warped with every step that Charles Toussaint took inside. “Do not tell me how to honor my son.” Spit flew from his mouth, and the flickering flame from the torch triggered the shadows on his face to dance. “You killed him. You and your witchcraft.” He snatched Samba by the wrist, his large weathered hand engulfing her with ease. “I’ve come to repay you in kind.” He regarded the empty house, and he squeezed her wrist hard.

  The bones in Samba’s wrist groaned in pain, but she did not waver. She narrowed her eyes. “My death will bring you no joy
.”

  Toussaint yanked her close enough to where she could smell the sweat of his body and the stink of his breath, which puffed hot on her cheek. “No. But your daughter’s death will.”

  Queen Samba’s eyes flashed bright green, and she slapped Toussaint’s cheek. The vicious crack released Toussaint’s hold on her wrist, and he stumbled to the side. When he turned to face her again the mark left behind on his cheek burned a bright red.

  Toussaint screamed, lunging for Samba, his size and strength overpowering as he muscled her to the crowd outside. She was brought out to the roar of cheers. The mob parted as Toussaint threw her to the ground.

  Samba slowly pushed herself up, the crowd circling around her. “You do not want this.” She pointed to Toussaint. “You have followed this man here, but that does not make you evil. It’s what comes next that will define your souls.”

  “The only evil here is you, witch.” Toussaint grabbed her by the throat and practically lifted her off the ground. He looked to the dark swamp around him. “If you want your Queen to live, then give me the girl! If not, then you’ll all watch her burn!”

  Samba struggled for air, trying to peel his fingers off as Toussaint waited for a response. And Samba was glad to hear nothing but silence.

  “Fine,” Toussaint said, and then tossed Samba to the ground. “String her up!”

  The crowd cheered, and Samba clawed at the dirt, gasping for breath. From the ground, she saw the wood and oil they’d lugged with them and the cross that she would be tied to. She shut her eyes and whispered. “Bon Dieu. Hear me. Please.”

  Angry hands grabbed her arms and dragged her toward the pyre. Coarse rope tightened around her wrists and ankles, her arms pinned behind her back on the cross. She lifted her head to the night sky. She knew the pain that would come. She knew she would feel everything. But her daughter would live.

  “Witch, you have been found guilty in the practice of unholy rituals,” Toussaint said as the wood around her feet was doused with oil. “For your crimes, you will be burned at the stake and sent back to the hell and devil that you worship.”