Swamp Gothic 2

By Robert Pickering

Following on the success of Robert Pickering's first Swamp Gothic collection of short horror set in the bayous and marshlands of South Louisiana, he has produced a second collection of an additional 13 stories. Whether it's a good ol' fashioned ghost story you're looking for, or something more along the lines of a psychological thriller, this book has a little something for everyone. And always remember, if you choose to go out in the swamp at night, be careful, you never know what you might come across.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Pickering
• Release date: Oct 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463012284

Robert Pickering

I never wanted to be thought of as an author. Somehow to me, authors were the men and women who populated the pages of those dreaded anthologies we were forced to read in school. The worst fate I could possibly suffer would be to appear alongside Hemmingway, Melville or O'Connor in one of those enormous volumes - not that I have anything to worry about on that score. I would much prefer a space on bookshelf next to the likes of Stephen King, James Patterson or John Grisham. Better yet, to be in the tote bag of some young lady headed to the beach. I've always considered myself more of a storyteller. If I can get you engrossed in one of my stories, I'm satisfied that I've done my job. I was born and raised in South Louisiana, and draw on the heritage and folklore of the area. Though I may veer off into other genres from time-to-time, be it crime dramas, action adventure, non-fiction, even romance, I find myself returning to my roots time and again. I've also moved around the Southeast, first to Georgia, and then North Carolina. In both cases, I managed to pick up on some of the character of the place, and include it in my writing. I currently live in the city of Wilmington, North Carolina with my wife, my youngest daughter and two dogs.

Book preview

Swamp Gothic 2

By

Robert Pickering

Copyright © 2018 by Robert Pickering

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.

This book is dedicated to my mother who inspired in me an early love for books.

THANK YOU, DEAR

My parents had known Mrs. Haydel for years. She and her husband, who had passed away a number of years ago, had lived two doors down from us in Lafayette when I was a young child. She was a school teacher, and he had retired from the railroad. Though I had long since grown up and moved out on my own, I still saw her around town from time to time, and of course, every year at Mardi Gras in our usual spot. My family had long ago staked out a spot in the parking lot of the Episcopal Church along the parade route, where you could count on us being every year with our tent, barbeque grill and ice chest full of beer. It was a tradition.

Mrs. Haydel was in her mid-80s at the time, but she seemed ageless. She had the same white hair and same round glasses she’d had as long as I could remember. Given her age, it was a bit of a surprise that she had shown up at Mardi Gras that year. Temperatures were far cooler than usual, with temperatures hovering in the low-40s, and a stiff breeze was blowing from the north. Since Mardi Gras fell anywhere from mid-February to early March, and the weather in South Louisiana was rarely predicable, you could never tell from year-to-year what you were going to get in terms of temperatures. I had worn everything from shorts to winter parkas to Mardi Gras festivities over the years. It was cold enough that even my parents, who were pretty hardy folks, decided to stay in and watch the parades on television. So it was just me that year, me and Mrs. Haydel.

She appeared a little more pale and drawn, and maybe a little more subdued, than usual. I wondered whether she was coming down with something. If so, she probably shouldn’t have been out in that weather. She was a real trooper though, staying until the last parade ended around dusk.

As people started to pack up and leave, Mrs. Haydel turned and asked if I could drive her home. It was only then that I realized I hadn’t seen anyone drop her off. She had just sort of appeared by my side around the time the parades began. I told her that it wasn’t a problem, but I couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t asked earlier, not that it would have mattered. I was more than happy to help out. There was something else though, something that struck me as odd. She had asked the question in a monotone, almost expressionless voice, as if I was a stranger she had never met before. I had never seen her like that, and I was beginning to wonder if there was something seriously wrong with her. Had she had a stroke? Was she suffering from the onset of dementia? I even thought about taking her to the hospital instead of to her house.

Instead I asked, Are you okay, Mrs. Haydel?

Oh, yes dear, she replied in her typically cheery way. Just tired.

Are you sure, I inquired again. If she was really ill, I didn’t want her to be alone.

Yes, I’m sure, she said, forcing a smile.

She managed to make it to the car, and we drove to her house in silence. She lived in a small white-washed house in an older neighborhood that had once been filled with well-kempt starter homes for young families just starting out. Since then, many of the places had been snapped up by investors who rented them out to students or transient residents who didn’t have any particular stake in keeping them up. As such, they had fallen into disrepair. Front walkways had cracked and weeds had sprung up through the fissures, paint had faded and damage to roofs and siding had been haphazardly patched over rather than fixed permanently. It was sad thinking that the place where I had spent the first few years of my life had fallen so far. Here and there, houses owned for years by older couples, or longer term residents, stood out, freshly painted or newly renovated. Perhaps a new wave of gentrification would save this place.

When we arrived, I helped her out of the car and began to walk her up the walkway to her front porch. We were almost there when she suddenly announced, Oh dear, I’ve forgotten my jacket in the car.

I’ll go get it, I said.

Oh no, dear, she responded, grabbing my arm with a force surprising for a woman of her age. I’ll get it myself. She smiled again, this time more genuinely. But if you’ll do me favor, dear, please open the front door. The key is in the usual place under the potted plant. And if you’ll be so kind to turn on my bedroom light, I hate walking into the house in the dark.

Sure, I replied, heading up the steps. I found the key where she said it would be, and unlocked the deadbolt. I turned back briefly to see her opening the car door to retrieve her jacket from the backseat. Such a nice woman, I thought, stepping through the door.

I was immediately struck by an unpleasant odor. It was one I instantly recognized as being that of decaying flesh. It was not overpowering, but definitely noticeable. My first thought was that an animal, maybe a raccoon or an opossum, must have crawled under the house and died. As nauseating as the thought was, I figured I’d offer to come over the next day and remove whatever it was. It was the least I could do. The house was pitch dark, but I knew from having been her house many times when I was young, that her bedroom was the first one on the right, just off the main hallway. If I turned on the light in her room, it would spill out into the hallway and she would easily be able to see once she got inside. I felt along the inside where I knew there was a light switch and flipped it on, flooding the room with light.

As I turned and looked at the bed, I was instantly transfixed with shock and horror. There on the bed lay the shriveled, deceased body of Mrs. Haydel, dressed in the pick floral dressing gown I had seen her in countless times. It was clear from the state of decomposition that she had been dead for some time, possibly several weeks.

Reflexively, I gagged and vomited, trying to catch my breath. How could it be? I had just spent an entire day with this woman. What I was seeing was just not possible, yet there she was!

I staggered out of the room, unsteady on my feet. The car! Yes, I had just seen her leaning into the car. I quickly made my way out onto the front porch, the cold night air slapping me in the face. I looked out toward my car, but Mrs. Haydel was nowhere to be seen. I looked up and down the street, but she had simply disappeared. This had to be some kind of joke, some kind of sick joke. But the body … the body had been real, I was sure of it.

I went back inside, casting a glance onto the bedroom, and once again seeing the sickening sight of Mrs. Haydel’s silently decaying corpse there on the bed. I made my way through the darkness to the kitchen. There was really nothing to be done for her now, but the police had to be notified – just in case. I found the phone in the usual place on the sideboard beside a bowl of plastic fruit that had been there forever. I turned on the small lamp as I dialed 911, and glanced down at the small pad of paper she kept handy for messages. Printed on top in her neat, precise handwriting were the words, Thank You, dear.

HUNT … SEEK … KILL

By all measures, my upbringing should have been happy and normal. I grew up in a small Southern town with loving, supportive parents in a middle class household where all my needs were met. For some unknown reason, things went wrong for me soon after I started school. I had trouble making friends, and developed crippling anxiety. I grew bitter and resentful, and did poorly in my classes. My parents had me see a psychologist, but I wouldn’t open up to her, so things didn’t improve.

Somehow, I made it through high school and even got accepted into college. It was there that things began to change. I met other students with interests similar to mine and had no knowledge of my previous life. I was just like them. I even joined a fraternity and made new friends. It was at a fraternity party my freshman year that I met a girl who would later become my girlfriend. She wasn’t the prettiest girl, maybe 5’5" and slightly overweight, with short dark hair and glasses, but there was something alluring and seductive about the way she carried herself and she didn’t lack self-confidence. She also had a dark, mysterious side that enchanted and excited me. She was into witchcraft and the occult. She claimed that it was the source of her strength and self-assuredness, and that sometimes she could even control what others thought and did. Given my past struggles, it seemed like that might be the answer to all my problems.

Initially, I had my misgivings. I wasn’t currently religious, but I had been raised Catholic and that kind of thing went against everything I had been taught. Still, the prospect that somehow I could gain self-esteem and even exercise power over the thoughts and actions of others was very appealing. I gradually began to immerse myself in her spiritual world, confident that if I became uncomfortable, I could just stop. Instead I found myself drawn deeper and deeper into the darkness. Rather than open up socially, I ignored others, and she became the center of my existence. One moonlit night, as we sat in an overgrown field, under an ancient oak tree draped with Spanish moss, she and I pledged ourselves to the Dark Lord and cut our fingers, mixing our blood as a symbol of our dedication.

As