Vintage Memories

Chapter Seven "Beneath the Cypress Tree/Help Me To Help You"

Any beauty this place once possessed had been sucked out of the air and replaced with a heavy, sinister feeling. Every rustle of a bush, every dry snap of a branch sent his agitation skyrocketing. It was then his memory kicked into gear, conjuring up the Louisiana folklore Allen had read to him one afternoon, either on his second or third visit. The descriptions kept him awake that night, hunkered under hotel blankets as if they provided some talismanic protection as he scouted the streets of the French Quarter for any suspicious inhuman activity from a drawn back and locked window.

There were stories of swamp witches who kidnapped children; of bayou fairies—they had a French-ish name that was lost to him—who danced in their glowing auras like fireflies, and cozened journeyers to their demise deep in the swamps. However, those seemed more like innocuous tales in relation to that of the Rougarous: Louisiana parallels to werewolves—at least that was the connection Anthony made—with scores of them prowling the backwoods for misbehaving children to feast upon, unhindered by the day as much as the night.

Lord knew that he did a great deal of misbehaving, enough to make him look as tasty as a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey to any passing Rougarou.

That's when all the ill-defined noises of the forest coalesced into a single nucleus of sound. Branches cracked in a building rhythm, and leaves sibilated as they were being hustled by determined footfalls. Stalking, it was stalking, and it was coming closer. He couldn't see where it was coming from, but he heard the huffing, hard breath from a gaping maw. The smell of rancid, steaming breath seeping out between the gaps of gnashing fangs invaded his nostrils.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. It was a Rougarou, he was sure of it, or something else unknown, undocumented maybe, but whatever it may be, it had him.

"Don't eat me!" He jutted his elbow back into the Rougarou's torso. It let go of his shoulder.

"Ow!" It sounded familiar. "Anthony, you twit! It's me!"

Allen increased the distance between them for fear of being struck again. His breath was labored, his tawny face now red, layered in a glaze of sweat, and glasses askew. He rubbed the impact point just under his ribcage, beneath the strap of his book-bag that crossed from his shoulder to his hip.

"That... hurt. " Allen panted.

"Holy shit, Al, ya' scared me!" Imagination, as it often did, had gotten the better of him, and poor Allen had paid for it with a hard jab.

"You're... incredibly... fast..." Allen sputtered through deep breaths, "if I... hadn't heard you calling... I probably wouldn't have found you." He straightened his posture and slowed his breathing to a steadied pace. Anthony looked down at his feet briefly, before glancing up at him. In his playful ferment, he hadn't minded his way. It was his fault they had ventured so far.

"Sorry...I didn't mean to get us lost," he uttered. Allen broke away to observe the area.

"Us?" Allen turned to look back at him, "you're lost; I know exactly where we are." Anthony was quick to follow as Allen took up a path enshrouded in leaves and overgrown brush.

Who was he to question him? Allen, at only thirteen, had an air of assuredness about him so adult-like, so mature beyond his years, Anthony admired him for it. Nothing worried him when Allen stood so decided. Allen's confidence became his confidence.

"—somewhere around here..." He heard Allen mumble, focused on finding something in particular.

"What's around here?" Anthony asked, and Allen only tossed him a grin over his shoulder.

"You'll see."

Their steps became increasingly calculated as the trees tapered off and the forest floor beneath them became pliable and unpredictable. Allen swooped up a stick, poking at the ground.