Water Witch

by Deborah LeBlanc

  I shook my head, perplexed. Beyond perplexed. Angelle was one of the most levelheaded, straightforward people I knew. Either this had to really be happening or the stress of a new marriage, new job, and a new roommate had gotten to her. Then there were the missing kids on top of it all. I felt like I’d walked into a bad dream. The kind where nothing linked together to form a complete story, just fragmented vignettes that circled around and around in your head, never going anywhere, never making sense.

  And one you felt sure you’d never wake from.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Angelle stopped pacing long enough to study me.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” she said, and the worry and fear on her face damn near yanked my heart right out of my chest.

  I got to my feet, hurried over to her, touched her shoulder.“No . . .no, I do believe you. I do, honest. It’s just hard for me to wrap my brain around all of this, that’s all.”

  Her tears came faster. “Maybe . . . maybe this will help.” She lifted her shirt, then the front of her bra and revealed her breasts.

  I gasped at the deep purple bruises covering both breasts. Rage flared white-hot through me. Someone—something had touched my sister—hurt her. Instinctively, I wanted to hide her, protect her, beat up, kill whatever had defiled her.“My God! How could Trevor not have seen this? You’re nothing but one huge bruise!”

  “He hasn’t seen them because, well . . .” She pulled down her bra and lowered her shirt. “He hasn’t, you know, touched me since Poochie moved in. It’s almost like we’ve become roommates or something. He leaves to go to work at the plant early in the morning, comes home after his shift only long enough to pick up his skiff and head out to the basin to check on his crawfish traps. By the time he gets back it’s real late, and he’s always so exhausted . . . and angry.”

  “Angry about what?”

  She held up her hands, shrugged, then let her arms drop to her sides. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t really have a clue. He’ll start an argument over the stupidest things.” She returned to her chair and slumped into it. Her face held the weariness of an old woman exhausted with life. “That’s why I wanted you to come so bad, Dunny. Something is here.” She waved her hands about, indicating space in general. “I don’t know if it’s just in this house, in this whole town, or in the swamp. I don’t know if Poochie brought it with her when she moved in or if it’s just coincidence that things started at the same time she got here. All I know is it’s gotten worse since the kids disappeared, and it’s hidden.” She looked me dead in the eye this time. “And you’re good at finding things that are hidden.”

  I blew out a breath, scrubbed my hands over my face.“Yeah, but we’re talking about . . . what? Ghosts?”

  She shrugged, then her body seemed to sag with defeat.

  Everything I’d found in the past had been something tangible. Water, oil, Angelle’s cat, a misplaced locket, thimble, a pocket watch, a wallet. Everything had been something I could see and touch. How was I supposed to dowse for . . . for what? Air? The first time I found water, the discovery came without my focusing on it. It simply happened, like my extra finger had taken charge of my brain to make me aware of its ability. Same thing with the oil and with Pirate. And each occurrence had produced a different sensation. Pain—extreme cold or heat—tingling as if an electric current was running through my finger. But after experiencing each new sensation for the first time, it never returned on its own, only when I focused on what needed to be found. What I’d felt near the swamp behind the Bloody Bucket was definitely new. The only thing it had led me to, though, was fear and pain. I didn’t have a clue as to what it meant to identify.

  I leaned towards her and cupped my sister’s chin with a hand so she had to look at me.“Has it touched you since I’ve been here?”

  “No. But I have a feeling it’s . . . I don’t know . . . it feels like it’s waiting for something. Maybe waiting for you to leave?”

  “Then the sonofabitch is going to be waiting a hell of a long time because I’m not leaving you until we figure out what’s going on.” I pulled out the chair next to her and sat. “God, Gelle, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me all this sooner. I don’t know how you’ve carried this by yourself for so long. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to worry you, and I was afraid you’d think I was losing my shit or something.” She picked up the soda, sipped a little, then fidgeted with the can again. “And it’s not been all by myself all this time. Last week I went to see Pastor Woodard and talked to him about it.”

  “You mean that preacher Poochie is always calling crazy?”

  “Yeah, Sarah’s uncle. I really don’t think he’s crazy, though. He just really gets into what he does. You know, that whole praise Jesus, halleluiah stuff. Being a preacher and all, I thought he might be able to help. He did in a way, just by listening. He even prayed over me, said I was under attack by the devil and needed a lot of prayers. I went back to him a couple of times after that, but his praying never made it stop. I haven’t been back since Sarah disappeared. I’m sure the man’s under enough stress.”

  Sighing heavily, I got to my feet, walked over to the sink, and looked out the window above it. Preachers and demons, missing kids and swamps. It was as if I’d flown into some creepy fantasy world desperate for a hero. The fact that I was the only candidate for the position scared the hell out of me. I was as baffled by this whole thing as my sister was and didn’t have a clue how to help her.

  I was focusing so hard on everything Angelle had told me that it took a moment for me to realize that my eyes had trained on something. A tree, at least fifteen feet high, stood in the middle of the backyard. Its branches were filled with lush green leaves—and shoes of various styles, sizes, and colors. I remembered Poochie telling me about her prayer tree. How the shoes on one side belonged to the living and the shoes on the other belonged to the dead. Could she have brought a malevolent spirit here with her? Could those shoes and the souls they represented have thrown some preternatural scale off balance? Were the shoes, the missing children, and Angelle being violated tied together somehow?

  My shoulders slumped under the weight of the questions. They seemed ridiculous, too Twilight Zone-ish, and had no answers. In truth, I felt as useless as a rosary in a Baptist church.

  “Dunny?”

  I turned to my sister, the hush in her voice sending a cold chill up my spine. Her face was as white as the curtains on the window. She pointed to the archway that led to the living room—and the dark gray, wavering shadow that floated past the entrance.

  There are only a few times in my life that I actually remember doing a double-take. This was definitely one of those times. Unfortunately, the quick second look produced no less formidable results than the first. The shadow was tall and thick with just enough form to identify it as a person—or something resembling a person—a man from the size of it.Wide head, broad torso, arms that held only the slightest outline. Its legs reminded me of the smoke columns that had risen from the brush fire I’d witnessed back home months ago. Vacillating and dense, ever-moving.

  Having crossed the archway, the form paused, its uneven edges quivering as though struggling to maintain form. Then it turned. Only in profile was I able to make out the outline of a nose, thick lips, a jutting chin. I saw no eyes, only that heavy silhouette that didn’t belong there.

  Mesmerized, I took a step towards it, and my dowsing finger immediately grew cold. I didn’t need the warning from the digit to know I was facing the dead. I felt it to my very core—that and something else. Angelle had said she hadn’t seen anything during the times she’d been violated, but something in the way the shadow moved, the way its outline undulated, the way its center, its bulk wavered, was almost sensual in nature. This had to be it—what had been hurting her, molesting her.

  “Don’t . . .” Angelle’s whisper came through desperate, urgent and probably louder than she’d intended. I igno
red her, keeping my eyes locked on the shadow, which was only about fifty or sixty feet away. If it was looking at us, planned anything, I wanted to make sure the bastard kept its attention on me.

  “Dunny, please,no . . .”

  The form turned once more. It wavered, then narrowed and elongated, making itself taller, and as it did, I caught the heavy scent of musk and sweat—like that of a man who’d worked in the sun all day.

  Heart clobbering the wall of my chest, I took another step towards it. It was then I realized fear had a taste. Rusty pennies. My mouth salivated with the tang and bitterness of it.

  “Wh-what do you want?” I asked it, my voice sounding rusty as well. Something thunked to my left, and I shot a glance towards the noise. Angelle was on her feet, staring wild-eyed from me to the shadow, the soda can she’d had on the table now lying on its side, glubbing Coke across the blue and white-checkered tablecloth. The chill around my finger abruptly turned to sub zero, and I clinched my teeth from the pain. I noticed tears slip down my sister’s cheeks, then a strangled gurgling sound came out of her mouth. She wasn’t looking at me when she did it, though. She was looking at it.

  Reluctantly, I turned back towards the dark figure. My finger going cold had always meant I was getting close to something dead. When it got fucking cold, that meant I was literally within inches of the dead, damn near on top of it in fact . . . or it was on top of me—like this one was now.

  In the time it had taken me to notice tears and a spilled Coke, the thing had moved closer and had done so without sound. It stood only a couple feet away from me now, and although it was closer, its features were no more defined than they had been when it floated near the archway. A mass of dark, translucent smoke. My breath caught, and I stumbled back a step. It immediately closed the extra distance I’d created.

  “ . . . no, please . . .” I heard Angelle begging, crying, but it sounded like she was in another room—in another house—in another town or state. I wanted to look over at her, make sure she was okay, but couldn’t take my eyes off the . . . the thing pulsing in front of me.

  It drew closer . . . I couldn’t move.

  Drew closer still.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, like a kid in a thunderstorm, terrified of what might appear in the next flash of lightning. Only I had closed mine too late. The monster was already here. A block of ice the size of a mountain seemed to hang from my finger. I cradled it blindly, heard my sister whimper, was suddenly awash in the aroma of musk and sweat and something pungent I couldn’t identify. It radiated an energy that felt raw and feral, and I feared breathing lest its smoky substance, its essence find its way inside me, up through my nostrils, my mouth, into my soul.

  Time seemed to fold in on itself as I stood there, waiting . . . waiting for what I wasn’t sure. Teetering on flight or fight, I cracked my eyelids open to thin slits and saw it reach for me. A long, thick-fingered hand, much denser than the rest of its form, stretched, throbbed, undulated towards my face. Then its thick lips parted, and it let out a sound—the sound of crying children.

  CHAPTERELEVEN

  Poochie Blackledge leaned against the wall in the hallway of her grandson’s house, closed her eyes, and listened intently to the voices coming from the living room a few feet away. Something had happened to Angelle and Dunny while she’d been away. She knew it, felt it as sure as she felt they were up to something now.A little over an hour ago, when they’d picked her up at the Bloody Bucket, both had been too quiet. Even worse, neither had said a word even after she’d told them about the fight at the pier between Pork Chop and Beeno.

  Ten minutes after they’d left the Bucket the first time, when Angelle claimed her sister had a headache, everyone started talking about the missing kids. Vern, Pork Chop and Cherokee had been working to untangle the cow from the pier’s pilings at the time, and as they worked, Beeno mentioned that the sheriff from Iberville Parish wouldn’t be sending any more deputies to help search for the kids. According to Beeno, the parish was short on patrol power and needed everyone back in Plaquemine to work a NAACP rally. Upon hearing the news, Pork Chop lit into Beeno. He cussed and yelled about the taxes he paid and how nobody had the right to use his hard-earned money to pay cops to baby-sit a bunch of congregating lazy-assed niggers. The argument between them grew so heated, Vern had to let loose of the cow in order to stop the men from coming to blows. The cow floated off down the bayou, headless and gutless, and Cherokee had left without saying a word to anyone.

  To Poochie, that fight had been a juicy piece of gossip. How could anybody hear that story and not ask a dozen questions? It just didn’t seem natural. Of course, she was used to people ignoring her. Most folks thought she was a little off anyway. And as much as Poochie hated to admit it, her brain did occasionally toss her thoughts around like the balls in the Bingo machine back in St. Martinville. The thoughts would eventually settle back in the right place, but she sometimes opened her mouth while they were still in the middle of settling, which made some of her comments sound wonky, even to herself.

  The truth of the matter was Poochie didn’t really care what folks thought. In fact, it was probably a good thing they considered her nuts from time to time. When folks thought a person had loose change jingling around in their brains, that person could do or say just about anything they wanted and get away with it. Especially if they had a good number of years under their belt, which she certainly did. But getting away with stuff was really the only benefit to getting old. Everything else that came with old age Poochie considered poop in a toilet—the occasional forgetfulness—the saggy, wrinkled body—the loss of teeth, hair, hearing, and sight. It wasn’t fair that a brain could be so easily convinced it was still eighteen years old, despite its true number, but the body had no choice but to stiffen and creak with each passing year.

  Fortunately, even at eighty-four, Poochie saw well enough to know adventure or trouble, which for her was usually one and the same, when she saw it, and she heard well enough to hear what she needed to hear. Like the whispering going on in the next room.

  The whispering wasn’t a good sign at all. Earlier, when she’d been sitting in the living room with them, Angelle and Dunny had barely spoken a handful of words, but as soon as she’d excused herself to go to the bathroom, the murmuring started. The whole time Poochie peed, she tried to convince herself they were only talking personal sister talk. After all, it had been quite a while since they’d seen one another. But the logic wouldn’t stick. The funny feeling in her belly, which she believed God used as a warning device, wouldn’t let go.

  No matter the reason Angelle gave for Dunny being here, Poochie knew it wasn’t the whole truth. She was convinced Dunny had come to help find the kids, and she’d come for other reasons Poochie couldn’t quite latch onto yet. She also had a feeling she was supposed to help Dunny, but wasn’t sure how or with what. Praying for the woman was a given, it was something Poochie did often and knew she did well. Not that praying was anything to brag about, just another benefit of old age. The closer a person got to the grave; the more direct they got with God. At her age, Poochie figured she didn’t have time to mess with the repetitious hooey she’d learned in catechism. She shot straight from the hip and told God what was on her mind, and God usually returned the favor. But for some reason, He’d decided to keep most of the details about Dunny to Himself.

  Since the eavesdropping wasn’t working, Poochie decided to take a more direct approach. She inched her way along the wall, her walker leading the way, and peeked around the corner into the living room. The women were sitting close together on the couch, just as they had been earlier. Poochie cocked her head slightly to the left, keeping an eye on them while attempting to pick up a word or two.

  In that moment, Dunny looked up, evidently sensing she and Angelle were no longer alone. Her eyes were the color of wet rust, and they held an intensity and depth that was a little intimidating. Knowing she was busted, Poochie shuffled out into view.

  “Hey,�
�� Dunny said, acknowledging her with a half-hearted smile. Angelle sat back and glanced over her shoulder. Judging from the frustration that flickered over her face, Poochie figured they hadn’t had a chance to say all that needed saying and wouldn’t as long as she was in the room.

  Poochie aimed her walker towards the kitchen. “Y’all don’t pay me no mind. I’ll go start supper while you two visit.”

  “I’ll take care of supper, Pooch.” Angelle glanced at her watch. “I didn’t realize it was getting so late.” She leaned over, ready to get up from the couch.

  “No, no, stay where you at. Dere’s some shrimp in de icebox already peeled. I’ll use dat to make us a stew. A good roux gravy over some rice, now dat’ll put some meat on y’all’s skinny butts.”

  Before Angelle had a chance to protest, Poochie hurried through the archway that led to the kitchen. She by-passed the refrigerator and stove, fully intending to cook the stew she’d mentioned, only not now. If she couldn’t get the information she needed out of Dunny and Angelle, then she’d have to get it out of God, and the one place He seemed to listen best was at the prayer tree.

  After opening the back door, Poochie hobbled her way down the steps and over to the china ball tree that stood in the middle of the backyard. On the backside of the tree sat a wooden bench that Trevor had made and placed there for her. She shuffled over to it, sat, folded her hands in her lap, and sighed. Dusk was already pressing down on the day, but there was still plenty of light for her to make out the pale bricks on the house, the bayou that ran along the north end of the property, and the shoes hanging in the tree. Always the shoes.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Because of Sook, when Poochie first arrived in Bayou Crow, it hadn’t taken long for word to get out that a teeaunt had moved into town. Most old folks in south Louisiana still remembered a time when a teeaunt was as common as a doctor making house calls. Now it was almost impossible to find either. In the old days, a doctor brought a little black bag filled with medicine to your house, a teeaunt, a heart filled with prayers. Both, though, carried the intent to heal. The biggest difference between the two, besides the doctor thinking he was God and the teeaunt believing in God, was that a teeaunt didn’t take the one-shot-cures-all approach.