by Hunt, James
Louisiana mud was strong stuff. Like concrete to most people. He remembered as a kid getting stuck in it once or twice. But as a child when he was immobile, he was never scared. It was all just a game back then. There weren’t any real consequences. No, at the time it was only silliness.
It was funny how your mentality changed when you got older. Now getting stuck was a curse. It moved against progress. Forward, forward, always forward. Now when he looked down at the mud on his pants, the only thing he thought about was that he’d have to buy another pair. It always went back to money, didn’t it? That reason we complained about something, or the justification for our lot in life.
Bellingham thought about those things as he climbed behind the wheel of his cruiser. They were peculiar thoughts, and somehow they frightened him. Times were changing. But Bellingham desperately hoped that he had enough strength left to help one family pull themselves from the mud.
8
The trip to the house on Cypress Lane was similar to the trip to Bacalou’s world. A tugging sensation that pulled him through a tunnel of darkness after he touched Madame Crepaux’s hand, and moments later he found himself in the living room of the old house.
Owen wobbled a few steps, his mind dizzy from the trip, but when he looked over at Roger, the old man had hunched over and thrown up his breakfast.
Madame Crepaux glided across the floor and toward the closed front door. “He is out there. In the swamp.”
“Gah!” Owen buckled to his knees on the floor, a stabbing pain radiating from his chest and outward toward his limbs and the base of his skull. Bacalou was making a move, and Owen wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep the beast at bay for much longer.
Madame Crepaux placed a hand on his shoulder, and the pain lessened. “Hold on for just a little bit longer, Owen Cooley.”
“Just hurry.” Another flash of pain struck his chest, and he was pushed to his hands and knees. He arched his back and scrunched his face tight as he opened his mouth to cry out, but nothing but a breathless gasp escaped.
“Roger, come.” Madame Crepaux helped the old man over to Owen’s side, and Roger knelt. “Take his hand, and hold tight.”
Sweat poured off Owen in buckets as Bacalou roared in angry defiance of Owen’s control.
“Owen,” Roger said, his voice eerily calm as he gave Owen’s hand a squeeze. “Son, look at me.”
Owen kept his eyes shut tight, the pressure at the front of his skull throbbing and aching throughout his entire body. Roger squeezed his hand again, and Owen forced his eyes open. He slowly turned to the old man and saw that his expression was still and calm. And all Owen could think about was the fact that in a few moments, he would be dead.
“Tell Claire that this wasn’t her fault,” Roger said. “Tell her that this was my decision and that this was the best way I could help my family.” The strength on his face wavered, and his lower lip quivered. “You make sure she knows that. And you tell Matt that I’ll always be with him, and you tell Chloe that I want her to draw a picture for me to keep.” His hand finally shook as the last words left his mouth.
“Roger…” Owen struggled to hang on as Madame Crepaux placed her left hand on Owen’s head and her right on Roger’s head. But he couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t find the words the man deserved. “Thank you.”
“Bacalou!” Madame Crepaux’s voice bellowed loudly throughout the room. “Hear me!”
Owen felt the creature fix its gaze toward Crepaux. A growing heat radiated from Crepaux’s hand, and Owen saw the remnants of the light beaming from her palm spread onto the floor.
“Ooo-La-Cunna-Do-Eee-Way. Ooo-La-Cunna-Do-Eee-Way. Ooo-La-Cunna-Do-Eee-Way. OOO-LA-CUNNA-DO-EEE-WAY!”
“GAAH!” Owen tensed, his muscles spasming as Bacalou roared inside of his mind. He clenched his hands tight into fists as the creature stirred, thrashing about in defiance. The heat worsened, the light brightened, and the pain intensified.
The incantation drudged up the creature’s memories, and they swirled to the forefront of Owen’s consciousness. Darkness, and the putrid stench of death drove the creature mad with desire.
Owen felt his hold over the beast slipping as Bacalou grew angrier and more defiant from Madame Crepaux’s chanting that became faster and faster. Owen’s eyes rolled back, and he seized on the hardwood. Just when Owen felt the darkness pull over him in finality, a bright burst of light blinded him and in one momentary instant, he felt his soul leave his body. Beneath him he saw the transference of Bacalou into Roger, the creature lusting in a crazed whirlwind for the hunt for its prey.
And then Owen was tugged back into himself and was returned to the pain and agony of his own flesh. A cavern formed in the spaces where Bacalou had resided. Owen trembled, his body feeling like nothing more than a shell that would collapse in on itself from his own weight.
A few beads of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose and collected on the ground like raindrops. Owen looked over to find that Roger was gone, and Madame Crepaux had suddenly moved toward the front window of the house.
Still shaking, Owen rolled to his side, his strength yet to return. “What—” He gulped. “What happened?”
“It’s done.” Madame Crepaux’s reflection was in the window. Her expression was stoic and her voice a flat whisper. “Bacalou has taken Roger’s body as a vessel.”
Owen looked around the house. Nothing but their old furniture was there. No trace of Roger had even been inside. He shook his head, confused. “It just left?”
“Bacalou has hunted the heir of the Toussaints for a very long time,” Madame Crepaux answered, still staring out the window, her expression stoic. “It will kill the last Toussaint in its own way.” A smile finally broke the façade. “And it will be a painful, dreadful affair.”
Owen pushed himself off the floor and hobbled toward Madame Crepaux. He took her arm and spun her around to face him with surprising ease. “Matt. He still has my boy. The creature—”
“I know the answer you want to hear, Owen Cooley.” Madame Crepaux’s smile resembled that of a grandmother trying to soothe a young child. “But it’s an answer that I do not have. And even if I did, I would not tell you.”
Owen backed away from her, still shaking, clutching the walls for support so he wouldn’t collapse from disbelief. “You told me that this would get my family back.” His cheeks reddened with anger. “That’s what you said it was all about, right? Life? And now you won’t tell me if my own son will be able to keep his?”
“Owen, it is not wise to know to a future that hasn’t been writ—”
“Don’t give me that shit!” Owen slammed his fist into the wall, and it throbbed from the vicious hit. “That mystical Voodoo bullshit is all you’ve fed me since I’ve run into you. I want the truth, and I want it from you now!”
Madame Crepaux glided toward him, her demeanor still calm and cool. “Chuck Toussaint wants to hurt you before he goes away. He blames you for everything that has happened to him, and he wants you to feel the same gut-wrenching pain and anxiety that has plagued him his entire life. And he thinks killing your son will do that to you.”
Owen nodded absentmindedly as he turned away from Madame Crepaux. “And what happens now?”
Madame Crepaux returned to the window and resumed her idling staring contest with the world outside. “We wait for Chuck Toussaint to find us.”
* * *
Chuck lingered at the swamp’s edge, just before the start of the clearing of the field that led toward the house. He saw the light through the windows, and he heard the screaming. And not long after it was all done, he heard the familiar rattling of the creature’s staff.
He looked back down to Matt, who lay motionless on the ground, his lips turning a light shade of blue. When he breathed, a rattling wheeze squeezed from his lungs.
Chuck yanked the boy to his feet. He kept the gun close and crouched low in the tall reeds on his way across the clearing, dragging the impotent Cooley boy
behind him. His eyes were fixated on the house ahead of him. There were no windows on the side of the home he was approaching, but the lights he saw from earlier were coming from the front of the house, so he made his way toward the back door.
Another rattle echoed across the field, and Chuck froze. He crouched lower, barely anything viewable beyond the reeds. A chill crawled up his spine. He exhaled a puff of frosty air. He turned left, then right, then back toward the house, all the while the air around him freezing colder and colder.
Another rattle, and then another, the bones cracking together more violently the closer he moved toward the house. Without realizing it, Chuck had broken into a sprint, revealing himself from the tall grass on his path toward the back door, Matt’s limp body still being dragged behind him.
The bones cracked and reached a crescendo as Chuck touched the handle of the back door. He was breathless as he entered but when he shut the door behind him, the rattling ended.
Silence fell in the house, and he dropped Matt on the floor, placing both hands on the pistol. With the commotion he made and after forgoing his stealth outside, there was no way that they didn’t hear him enter.
Chuck scanned the dining room from the hallway. He passed a room on his left and poked his head inside, finding it empty. When he reached the end of the hallway, he edged himself to the corner, using the wall as cover.
“I know you’re here!” Chuck screamed, his voice carrying across the room to the front of the house. He adjusted the grip of his pistol, his fingers peeling off in quick, sweaty jerks before he reset them. He kept waiting for Madame Crepaux to come out of nowhere, but a part of him knew that she wouldn’t interfere with the creature’s game. Not now. Not when it was so close to the end.
“I’ve got your boy!” Chuck spoke the words mockingly and smiled at the thought of Owen’s torture. Death had come for both men tonight. And Chuck was Owen’s Grim Reaper. “You come out now, or I blow his brains out.” Chuck placed the tip of the gun against Matt’s skull, not even looking down at the boy. If he had, he would have seen the pale blue of his lips had spread to the rest of his face. “Now, Owen!”
And then, with his hands in the air, Owen stepped into the dining room from the kitchen. His complexion was pale white, his skin almost glowing in the darkness. His face was gaunt, his eyes tired. Chuck had expected fire and brimstone, but instead what he saw was a despondent father offering his plea to a mad man.
“It won’t prove anything,” Owen said, shuffling his feet toward Chuck, his hands still up, but lowering from fatigue. “And it won’t change what’ll happen to you.” He stopped halfway. “It’s out of me. It’s hunting you.”
“It’s been hunting me my entire life,” Chuck said, the gun barrel still pressed firmly against Matt’s head. “Even when it wasn’t.” Chuck tossed Matt to the floor in front of him and then aimed the pistol at the boy. Matt remained motionless on the floor. His chest rose and fell quickly from the short gasping breaths.
Owen cried. “Please.” His lips quivered and his body trembled. He was no longer a man on the verge of collapse. He had already fallen.
“You know, I hated my father. Couldn’t stand him. He was a soulless piece of shit that tormented me, maybe even more so than the creature whose sole purpose was to kill me.” Chuck stepped forward, gun still aimed at Matt’s head. “But I’m not weak. Not like he thought I was. Not like you.”
Owen dropped to his knees, still crying. “P-Please, I—, I—”
And as Owen’s voice cut out, Chuck blinked, thinking that his vision had blurred as Owen’s figure slowly dissolved into what looked like black smoke. Owen’s eyes flashed and flickered with specks of gold, and before Chuck could make the connection, a force viciously knocked him from behind.
On the ground, Chuck saw the angered face of the real Owen Cooley, who hammered his fists against Chuck’s body. The witch had tricked him.
Owen pinned the wrist with the pistol to the ground and with his free right hand pummeled Chuck’s ribcage until he couldn’t hold the gun any longer.
The pistol clanged against the floor with a dead, heavy smack, and Owen gripped Chuck’s throat with both hands. He squeezed, cutting off the airflow, and Chuck smacked impotently at Owen’s arms as the room darkened and suddenly flushed with cold.
The wail of sirens flashed outside as Chuck and Owen grappled on the floor.
“Owen!” Madame Crepaux’s voice thundered in the room as black water, thick and goopy like tar, dripped from the ceiling and rose from beneath the floor. “He is for Bacalou to take! Not you.”
Car doors slammed out front, and the hurried pace of footsteps flooded into the living room and down the hall toward the kitchen.
Dark black blotches began to fill Chuck’s vision, and his head grew heavy as Owen continued to choke him. But out of his peripheral, he managed to see the officers with their guns flooding into the room, their attention half on the fight between himself and Owen and the black goo that covered the floor.
“Owen, let him go!” Bellingham aimed his service pistol at Owen, his finger on the trigger. “Now!”
“He tried to kill my family. Tried to kill me. Took my boy.” Owen’s eyes remained fixated on Chuck’s, his gaze intensified and crazed. “Why shouldn’t I kill him?”
“I’m giving you to the count of three, Owen!” Bellingham stepped closer, and more deputies filed into the dining room. The count was over twelve now. “One!”
Owen squeezed harder, cutting off the last of Chuck’s air.
“Two!”
Chuck’s hands fell to his sides, the strength to fight back no longer in his arsenal. His eyelids fluttered open and close. He heard the mumbled shouts of the officers, and Owen’s response, but the world blurred. And suddenly he saw a hand appear on Owen’s shoulder, and the voce around his neck cease.
Chuck gasped, sucking in air as he saw Madame Crepaux pulling Owen back. He coughed and gagged, splashing in the shallow black water as more dripped from above. His throat was raw, and the muscles around his neck were tender. He looked up to Madame Crepaux, who stared down at him with contempt.
“Feel good about yourself?” Chuck asked, his voice raspy.
Madame Crepaux shook her head. “I did this for a good woman who did nothing but help people. I did this because it is people like you who walk this Earth and think of it as disposable. I did this because what your family did was nothing but hurt and exploit everyone around them.” And then the contempt in her eyes transformed into pity. “You were not born evil, but you let evil influence your every move, and it consumed your soul. And after all of that debt, your collector has finally arrived.”
She stepped away, and Chuck was left on the floor alone, where Bellingham and his deputies had their pistols aimed at him.
Chuck propped himself up on his elbows and then rolled to his side, hacking and still trying to catch his breath. Black water dripped from his shirt and elbows with a light drip, drip, drip.
“You think those guns scare me?” Chuck said, his eyes wild, his face reddening despite the drop in temperature. Most of the deputies were shaking, everyone’s breath puffing icy air into the room. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and laughed, the humor thick with desperation. “Go on. Shoot me.”
A tremor rippled the water and shook the house. It was deep, like a bass drum at a concert held at an arena. Another tremor. Another ripple. The spaces between the heavy beats grew faster, like something or someone was gaining speed.
Chuck pushed himself from his knees as the water bubbled behind Madame Crepaux. They started small, like soda bubbles, but grew larger, and bursting with mucky pops that sprayed the black goo farther over the spread.
And then the water grew still. The tremors stopped and noise was sucked from the room. Chuck shivered and puffed another breath of icy droplets. A rattle. Those bones. His eyes bulged from his skull and he scrambled backward until he slammed into the wall.
“NO!”
Another
rattle. Black matted hair rose from the black water in the center of the room.
“NO!” Chuck pushed himself harder against the wall, as if he could squeeze himself between the tiny cracks between the wood.
Black water dripped from Bacalou’s body, fully emerged from the darkness. It opened its mouth, those jagged and exposed teeth sharp and dripping with the same black goo that reached to Chuck’s ankles.
Bacalou extended its claws, its wide stumpy feet vibrating the floor with every step. He roared, its breath the stench of death.
And despite all the talk of wanting to face his demons, and all the buildup of trying to come to terms with the lack of his father’s love for him and how his dad had never made him weak, Chuck screamed at the top of lungs as he scurried backwards on all fours. “NO! Please! NO!”
Owen pulled Matt off to the side, clutching his son with both arms and shielding him from the stand-off between man and beast.
Chuck ran over to the pistol he’d dropped on his retreat, and when he reached for it, Bacalou lunged and knocked it from his hand. “Please, no!” Chuck smacked into the back wall, with nowhere else to run.
“Queen Samba’s curse has finally come to an end,” Madame Crepaux said, still standing back as the creature roared in ecstasy. “And so have you.”
Tears streamed down Chuck’s face, and he whimpered pathetically as Bacalou came within inches. The creature stared down at Chuck with those wide black eyes just staring at him, and as Chuck stared into the darkness, into the face of death, his life flashed before his eyes.
But they were only memories of fear and pain. All the words of his father came back to him, all of the stares from the kids in the halls at school, and all of the self-doubt that he filled himself with. It was an onslaught of shame and embarrassment. And as those last few tears froze on his cheeks from Bacalou’s cold, death-like presence, the creature looked as though it was relieved that it had finally come to the end. And in the creature’s relief, Chuck felt a sense of ease in those last moments. Right up until Bacalou rammed the claws from its left hand through Chuck’s chest.