The Curse of The House on Cypress Lane: Book 0- The Beginning

by James Hunt

Chapter 4

  Machinery buzzed around the factory floor as conveyer belts carried the auto parts down the assembly line. Employees operated the large mechanical arms that stamped the brake pads, and then packaged and stacked them into crates to be shipped.

  Watching the process, Owen half-listened to the HR rep. It was all just standard paperwork, going over worker’s rights and all that. He’d been through it before. It was interesting to find that the factory wasn’t unionized. He’d never seen that before. But with the pay, benefits, and working conditions so good, he guessed that there wasn’t need for one here.

  “Mr. Cooley?” Jonathan leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly together over the stack of papers that required Owen’s signature. “Did you hear me?”

  “No,” Owen answered. “Sorry. Long night.” He’d chosen to wait to tell his new employer about his father-in-law’s condition until after he’d signed on the dotted line.

  “By signing this, you acknowledge that the company isn’t liable for any injuries that you or your family sustain while staying on company property.” Jonathan pushed the form forward, the pen resting on top.

  “Right,” Owen said, picking up the pen and placing his signature on the form. He dated it, then handed it back to the HR rep, who then checked his watch and shuffled the papers together.

  “Well, it’s almost lunchtime,” he said. “Let’s head downstairs and I’ll show you where your locker will be.”

  Owen followed the rep through the factory floor, catching a slew of different greetings. Most of them were smiles and friendly, twangy hellos, but there were a few glares, some more menacing than others.

  Once Owen had his locker squared away, the lunch whistle sounded, and Owen realized just how much he missed that sound. The room quickly flooded with workers, clustering together in small groups, heading either for their lockers or the breakroom.

  “Did you bring anything to eat today, or do you need to step out for lunch?” Jonathan asked.

  “I didn’t bring anything,” Owen answered.

  “We’ll take care of ’em.”

  Owen turned to the sight of three sweaty figures dressed in matching blue uniforms. The man who spoke stuck out his hand and flashed a corn-yellow smile.

  “Marty Wiggins,” he said, squeezing Owen’s hand unusually hard. “You must be the new line supervisor. I was wondering who they picked to leap over me.”

  “No need for prickly words, Marty,” Jonathan said. “Be nice.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Marty waved it off and once Jonathan was gone, Marty leaned close to Owen, whispering. “I’d be careful with that one. Likes taking it up the exit only hole, if you catch my drift.”

  “Ah,” Owen said, nodding, uncomfortable from both Marty’s comments and his smell. “Gotcha.”

  Marty turned back to the two men still standing behind him. “Let me introduce you to the crew! This here is Jake Martin and Grandpa.”

  “That’s not my goddamn name,” Grandpa said, the wrinkles on his face further accentuated by his grimace.

  Marty slapped the old timer on the shoulder. “If you didn’t want the title, you shouldn’t have let me marry your daughter.”

  Grandpa shrugged Marty’s hand off him. “I never said you could. You just did it.” He crossed his thin arms over his girthy stomach and turned his pair of glassy eyes away. Owen wondered if the old man was going blind, and then wondered if that was better or worse than losing your mind.

  Jake Martin stuck his hand out, breaking the awkward silence and giving a friendly smile. His handshake was firm and lacked Marty’s over-compensating strength. “Good to meet you.” Out of the three of them, Jake was the most put together. Clean shaven, combed hair, and while his uniform was dirty, it wasn’t tattered and ragged like Grandpa’s and Marty’s.

  “We’re heading down to Crawl Daddy’s bar for food and a pitcher if you want to come,” Marty said. “Or are we not allowed to drink on the job anymore, boss?”

  “I don’t think you were allowed to do it before I got here,” Owen answered, Marty slowly fraying his nerves. Still, he didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. Managing people who wanted to slice you open was a lot harder than those who didn’t. “But I’ll tell you what, after work, the first round is on me.”

  Marty gave a compromising shrug. “Take what you get, I s’pose.”

  Everyone rode in Jake’s truck, Owen taking a back seat with Grandpa, who kept his arms crossed and his cocked toward the window on the ride to Main Street. The trip took less than five minutes, but with Marty yapping away in the front seat, it felt much longer.

  “So where ya from, Owen?”

  “Baltimore.”

  “We got a goddamn Yankee working us now,” Marty said, slapping his hat on his knee. “Now I know how General Lee felt after Grant won the war.”

  “What’d ya do in Baltimore, Owen?” Jake asked.

  “I worked at a shipyard,” Owen answered. “Welding mostly. But I’m a machinist by trade. I started out in assembly at a GM factory when I was younger.”

  “A Jack of all trades, huh?” Marty asked. “Maybe I should have learned more so I coulda got yer job.”

  “Knock it off, Marty, will ya?” Jake asked.

  “Ah, hell, I’m just poking fun.” Marty turned around in his seat, sweat mixed in with the jet-black stubble along his face. “You can take some poking, can’t you?”

  “Sure,” Owen answered. “Just not in the exit only hole.”

  Marty bust out laughing and slapped his hat down on his knee a few times, and Jake smiled. Even Grandpa chuckled, though he didn’t break from his staring contest with the view outside.

  Marty was more amiable at lunch, now that he was certain Owen didn’t ‘take it in the exit only hole,’ though he still did most of the talking. Jake got in a word when he could, and Grandpa kept his focus on his basket of fried catfish and sweet tea.

  And to Owen’s relief, the food was actually good. He wasn’t sure how he’d adjust to Creole cuisine. Thankfully he didn’t mind seafood. He foresaw a lot of that in his diet moving forward.

  With full bellies and slightly more tired eyes, they paid the tab, but only after a good ribbing from Marty about how the new ‘boss’ should pick up the check. When they stepped back outside from the frigid A/C, the Louisiana heat clocked Owen in the face and he let out a low woof noise from the dense, humid air.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Jake said, noticing the flushed look on Owen’s face. “I had a cousin grew up in Ohio, and he moved down here about ten years ago. Now, it gets below seventy degrees and he starts complaining it’s too cold.”

  “Hopefully it won’t take me ten years to get to that point,” Owen said.

  “Hey, we got some time before we get back,” Jake said. “Wanna show Owen a little bit of Main Street?”

  “Ain’t nothing to see,” Grandpa said. “Just some shitty bricks and cracked concrete.”

  “Now, Grandpa,” Marty said. “Don’t go belittling our beloved downtown like that.” Marty leaned over to Owen. “It’s the finest shitty bricks and concrete this side of the Mississippi.”

  To be fair, Grandpa’s description wasn’t that far off. A handful of businesses lined the road: barber, grocery shop, gas station, insurance company, realtor, hardware store, a doctor’s office. It was standard small-town America as far as Owen was concerned. Not much different from some of the neighborhoods in Baltimore. It was like its own self-sustaining entity.

  “Not a lot of activity today,” Owen said, noting the lack of pedestrians on the sidewalk.

  “Most of the town works at the factory,” Jake said.

  “The big boss’s family has kept most everyone employed since the thirties,” Marty said.

  “And the bastard won’t ever let you forget it,” Grandpa said, spitting on the ground, his arms crossed and that permanent scowl etched on his face.

  “Ah, Grandpa’s just sore cuz he’s worked there longer than anybody a
nd still has the same damn job,” Marty said. “Not the big boss’s fault that you never tried to climb that ladder.”

  “Ain’t no fucking ladder,” Grandpa said, his mouth downturned in a petulant frown. “Just a bunch of pussies playing dress up in those suits. I ain’t no fucking doll.”

  Owen watched the old man carefully. There was a sharp edge to his words. He aimed to cut, but what for, Owen didn’t know.

  With his eyes on the old man, Owen missed the table to his left and his leg knocked the corner hard, spilling some of the table’s contents to the pavement. He reached out his arms in a knee-jerk reaction to catch whatever it was that was falling but failed.

  “Oh, shit, someone’s gonna have some bad juju now!” Marty exclaimed, hysterical laughter shrieking from his mouth as he jumped up and down like a child.

  Owen bent down to pick up the merchandise, unsure of what his hands were touching. They looked like jewelry but were made out of rope, bones, feathers, and rocks. He picked up tiny packets with different-colored dust in them, and small glass tubes with a variety of different-colored liquids inside corked at the top. Two of the glass tubes broke and stained dark patches of grey over the concrete that quickly evaporated in the heat.

  Owen stood and put what he could salvage back on the table as a woman stepped out of the shop. He recognized her long dreads and baggy clothes from the day before. She stared at him now the same way she did when he drove past. Her face didn’t have the white paint like before, but the familiar shiver crawled up his back.

  “Careful, Owen,” Marty said, taking an over-exaggerated step back. “Miss Voodoo will cast a spell on you!” His accent thickened in satire and he waved his arms and squatted down, making some primitive noises with his mouth, then laughed while Owen gaped at the old woman, getting a better sense of her age now that he was up close. She was older, her face weathered and wrinkled, but what captured his attention most were her eyes. They were a light hazel, and tiny specks of yellow flickered like gold in the sunlight. Owen wasn’t sure if he’d seen a pair of eyes that beautiful before in his entire life.

  “It has seen you.” The voodoo woman’s words crawled from her mouth in a deep, slow drawl, hitting Owen like an unexpected wave at the beach. She clutched her staff, which Owen now saw had a large rock tied to the top of it with thin leather straps.

  Owen gestured to the broken items. “I can pay for what broke, I—”

  “Cana-linga-too-mara-hee-so.” She stepped forward and pounded her staff into the pavement. “Cana-linga-too-mara-hee-so. Cana-linga-too-mara-hee-so.” She repeated the words and motions in a rhythmic cadence as her eyes widened and locked on Owen.

  Owen heard Marty’s laugher and felt a tug on his sleeve, but there was something hypnotizing about the way she spoke. He couldn’t peel his eyes away from her.

  “C’mon, Owen,” Jake said, pulling Owen’s arm down the sidewalk. “Let’s go!”

  Owen stumbled after them, his head turned back to the woman slowly following to the edge of her store and tables of trinkets, repeating the same words over and over until her voice disappeared from the distance.

  “You all right?” Jake asked once they were at a safe distance.

  “I’m fine,” Owen answered, shaking his head like he had a dizzy spell. “Who was that?”

  “Our local crazy woman,” Marty answered. “You didn’t have one in Baltimore?”

  Jake’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Her name is Madame Crepaux. That’s her shop. It’s got all kinds of weird voodoo stuff in it. I wouldn’t go near that place, man. I’m not a religious man, but I don’t need to push my spiritual luck.”

  “Yeah,” Owen said. “I can understand that.” He tossed one last glance to the woman’s shop and saw that she’d disappeared. They circled back to the truck at Crawl Daddy’s and drove back to the factory to finish out the day.

  But the ride back felt different for a couple reasons. One, Owen was cold, like he just stepped out of a freezer even though he’d been sweating like a pig just minutes before. His skin was almost icy, like how Matt’s felt last night.

  And the second was the old man. While Grandpa ignored Owen on the way to lunch, the old man didn’t take his eyes off Owen the whole ride back to the factory. And just before they all clocked back into work, Owen watched the old man snarl at Marty over something he’d said, this time wide enough to reveal a silver-capped tooth. The same silver-capped tooth that a young girl saw under the Louisiana moonlight twenty-five years ago.