Butcher of the Bayou

Part 14

Back home in my quiet empty house, I find myself lying in bed, the soft whirring of the ceiling fan filling the room, its rhythmic hum providing a comforting backdrop to my swirling thoughts. My fingers traced the contours of the bracelet, feeling the rough texture of the leather band and the smooth surface of the gator teeth. How long before the DNA returns and Dective Cooper finds out who those bones belonged to? I should get rid of this bracelet. It's a damning piece of evidence. The last thing I need is for someone to find it here.

Turning on my side, I reached over to the bedside table and flicked on the lamp, casting a soft glow across the room. Carefully, I set the bracelet down on the wooden surface, my fingers lingering on its familiar contours for a moment longer.

With a sense of resolve, I pushed myself out of bed and made my way to the door, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my weight.

Stepping out onto the porch, I took a deep breath of the cool night air, the scent of the swamp mingling with the faint fragrance of magnolia blossoms.

I descended the wooden steps and crossed the yard to the water's edge. Pausing momentarily, I stared into the darkness, the moonlight casting long shadows across the water's surface.

Then, without hesitation, I let the bracelet slip from my fingers, watching as it disappeared into the inky depths below. As it sank out of sight, a weight lifted from my shoulders, leaving behind a sense of relief and a lingering sense of dread.

Turning away from the water, I made my way back to the house, the darkness of the bayou following me like a silent specter. Little did I know, the secrets I thought I had buried would soon come bubbling to the surface, ready to be exposed to the harsh light of day.

Entering the house, I closed the door behind me with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silence of the night.

Making my way to the living room, I sank into the worn couch, the familiar creak of the cushions a comforting presence. I closed my eyes, exhausted from the day and the stress of all that in Cyprus. I longed for sleep, but my whirlwind of thoughts had other ideas.

I found myself trying to remember my father; I closed my eyes, trying to summon any fragments of his image from the depths of my memory. Dark hair and a long beard. Soft-spoken. A solitary figure that was often seen disappearing out back in the old shed. It was his sanctuary, a place to be alone—a place I wasn't allowed to go. As a child, I didn't think much of this, but now, with my father's past being drugged up. I saw his hideaway as more. A place to harbor his secrets, a place to find answers.

Sleep would have to wait. I grabbed a lantern and headed out to the old shed nestled at the edge of the property. It had been years since I last ventured inside. I approached the weather-beaten door, the hinges creaking in protest as I pushed it open. The interior was cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by my lantern and the dim light of the moon filtering through the cracks in the walls.

I can see him clearer now in my mind: his face, his smile, those guarded eyes of his.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside, my eyes scanning the cluttered shelves and dusty boxes that lined the walls. It was a treasure trove of forgotten memories, each item holding a story of its own. And hopefully some answer to the questions that I longed for.

Boxes and crates were stacked haphazardly, their contents obscured by layers of dust and cobwebs. My eyes scanned the cluttered interior, searching for any clues that might shed light on my father's secrets. I moved cautiously through the cramped space, my heart pounding in my chest with each step. Finally, my gaze fell upon a small wooden chest tucked away in the corner, its lid slightly ajar as if beckoning me closer.

Approaching the chest, I gently lifted the lid, revealing its contents. Inside was a weathered journal bound in cracked leather, nestled among a jumble of old books and trinkets.

Who could this belong to? My parents weren't the journaling type, or I didn't think they were.

I flip over an old crate and sit down, positioning the lantern so I can see the book better. My fingers trembled as I opened the book. The first pages were yellowed from time. The handwriting was familiar I had seen it in the old birthday cards tucked away in my closet.

Father.

As I carefully flipped through the pages of the weathered journal, my eyes widened in astonishment at the revelations within. The journal was filled with cryptic passages and faded ink, each entry a glimpse into my father's innermost thoughts and secrets. It seems he was consumed by his own demons, driven to desperate lengths to protect his secrets at any cost.  The journal detailed father's involvement in a secretive voodoo-like cult that practiced dark rituals and made unholy pacts in exchange for power.

One entry caught my attention. It was written in haste, the handwriting hurried and desperate.

"Tonight, beneath the cloak of darkness, I ventured into the heart of the bayou, guided by the whispers of the spirits that haunt these murky waters. The darkness welcomed me with open arms, enveloping me in its cold embrace.

The murders continue unabated, each victim a sacrifice to the insatiable hunger of the shadows. I am but a pawn in their twisted game, a vessel for their dark desires.

But even as I do their bidding, a part of me rebels against the darkness that consumes me. I can feel its tendrils tightening around my soul, threatening to drag me into the abyss.

I slam the journal closed, causing a puff of dust to invade my nose.

The murders that had plagued Cypress were part of a larger plot that seemed to stretch back years, and my family was wrapped up in the horrific events.