Nancy K. Duplechain - Dark Trilogy 01 - Dark Bayou (5 page)

Med school didn’t work out like I thought it would. I practically sailed through the program, making A’s. I was at the top of my class and just had my residency left. I quit after the first month. All of my friends thought I had lost my mind and maybe they were right. They said that I was just burnt out and needed some time and that I should go back into the program. But that’s not what was bothering me.

When I started practicing actual doctor work, I couldn’t do it. I was blocked, mentally. I had no problem memorizing tons of information and taking tests and dissecting and labeling, but when it came to working with actual people, it was different. It didn’t feel right. All of the things I had learned in med school hadn’t felt right when I practiced on real patients. I was told that I should probably be a pathologist, but that’s not what I wanted. I wanted to save people, to help them. But every time I tried, it didn’t feel right.

I went into a depression after I quit. I hadn’t told anyone in my family or my friends back home about quitting. It’s beyond me how Clothilde knew. But she knew, and now it was somewhat of a relief that I didn’t have to pretend anymore, though I doubt she had told anyone.

Seeing that my depression wasn’t going to end anytime soon, my friend Shelly started dragging me out to clubs. She helped me to get a job at the clothing store where she was a manager, and I slowly started to feel good again. I didn’t have any pressure anymore and the alcohol and men helped with that. In some ways, I guess Clothilde was right. I was sort of acting like a gep. I laughed a little at this and unpacked my things.

After a long, hot shower, I settled into bed and fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. The peaceful sleep I had on the plane was long gone. When I hit the REM state, it was frightening.

I dreamed that I was back in the chapel room at the funeral home. I was alone, sitting in one of the pews in front of the coffin. I was crying, telling David how sorry I was. Then his casket slowly creaked open, sounding like the steps of Miss Ya’s narrow staircase. One of his scarred hands came out and clutched the side of the coffin. I was frozen in terror. I watched as the lid slowly rose up, his other hand pushing from the inside. When it was fully open, a man in a dark suit sat up. It wasn’t David. It was the man from Bancker.

He was wearing a black hat and blue jeans. He was scarred, just as David had been, and he was very pale, with luminous eyes. He slowly turned his head towards me. He was grinning. I opened my mouth to scream, but instead of my voice, white feathers came out. I gagged, falling to the floor, struggling for each breath. I tried and tried to get all of the feathers out of my mouth, to pull them from the back of my throat, but there were too many and I thought,
This is how I will die
.

I crawled out of the chapel room, trying my hardest to breathe. I yanked open the doors and fell onto the other side of the threshold. I gasped for air and found that I could now breathe. I hurried to shut the door behind me. I looked up and saw that I was no longer in the funeral home. I was at Clothilde’s house. I was on her front porch, looking out onto the large pond in front. The pond was choked green with algae and, in the center of it, in a small crawfishing boat we called a pirogue, was Lyla. She was frantically waving me over. I got up and ran down the front steps of the long porch and up to the pond’s edge.

“Come here!” she yelled to me. “It’s safe here! Hurry!” I looked behind me and the front door was slowly opening. I saw the scarred hand reaching around the door frame. I looked back at Lyla. “Hurry, Aunt Leigh! It’s safe here!” she called.

I stepped into the pond and started to wade my way to her. I struggled to trudge though the water, but the thick plant life at the bottom was tangling my feet. I kicked off my shoes and tried to swim the rest of the way. But at that moment, I saw a white dove darting toward Lyla.

“Behind you!” I called to her. She looked back and screamed as the dove turned into a large crow. It knocked her off the pirogue and she fell into the water. “Lyla!” I screamed. I swam to the center of the pond and dove in after her. It was too dark to see. I felt around for her, but I couldn’t find her. I picked my head back up and, right in the water in front of me, was the man. I screamed.
The Dark Man
, I thought.
This is what Jonathan saw.
But I refused to believe it.

“You’re not real! This is just a dream!” I shouted.

He grinned at me. “It’s a good day for a burial,” he chuckled.

I woke up, soaked with sweat. My sheets and pillowcase were damp, and the blanket was on the floor.

The dream stayed with me all the next day and the day after that and the day after that. Every night for the next two weeks, I had the same dream. I finally told Shelly I needed more time to recover from David’s death. That was a lie. I was very good at pushing things aside in order to get the job done. But I couldn’t shake that dream. Shelly told me to take all the time I needed.

I took her up on that offer and started making plans. I felt foolish all to hell, but I’d never been so worried about someone in all my life. All sense of rationality left me and, not knowing what I was going to say or do when I got there, I packed up my black ‘07 Mustang and drove back to Louisiana. All I knew was that Lyla needed to be protected from something and I had to do it.

4

Home

T
he desert, at sunrise and sunset, is one of the most beautiful sights on Earth. Even at night, you can see more stars than anywhere else; countless diamonds shining through a sea of black velvet. I drove all night, for eighteen hours, through Arizona and New Mexico, going down I-10 East. I watched as the oranges and pinks and reds stacked up on top of each other and blanketed the earth as far as I could see. It was breathtaking.

Exhausted, I finally pulled over in some little town in central Texas. I stayed at a Best Western and barely got any sleep. I didn’t dream, but my mind nagged me all night. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I got back to Abbeville. How long would I stay? What would be my excuse for coming back? What if this really was all just my imagination working overtime, brought on by the shock of David’s and Michelle’s deaths? What if, by coming back, I just make it worse for Lyla and Clothilde … and myself?

I awoke at 6:00 AM with a headache. I took a cool shower, forced myself to eat the continental breakfast and tanked up my car. At the gas station, I bought three energy drinks and some aspirin, and continued my journey down I-10.

It took almost the whole day to get through Texas. When I finally crossed the Louisiana border, I was again exhausted, so I was extremely unhappy to be stuck in crawling traffic. I leaned my head out of the window and saw cars backed up for miles, going no more than ten miles-per-hour.

I soon realized the cause of the jam when I came upon a construction sign. I groaned, feeling more agitated by the minute. I-10 was the only way I knew to get to Lafayette and then to Abbeville from where I was. About a half a mile ahead of me I saw an exit, and I seriously debated whether or not to take it. But as I looked into the looming distance of vehicles shimmering in the late afternoon heat, I knew I couldn’t bear the asphalt death-trap any longer. As soon as the exit was within reach, I took it.

I cursed myself for not having a map in the car. I didn’t really think I would need one, seeing as how California is pretty much a straight shot to Louisiana via I-10. Taking this detour now, I had to use my general sense of direction. I kept imagining I-10 East in my head and used that as my compass. But it was so easy to get lost on the back roads in rural Louisiana. I was surrounded by patches of wooded areas, rice fields and farmland.

I came to a crossroads and didn’t know if I should turn right, left, or go straight. My gut told me to go straight, but my brain, picturing I-10, told me to turn left and that should put me parallel with the interstate. I turned left and followed a pot-hole filled road until it became a gravel road. I knew I had to turn around by the time the gravel road turned into a dirt road, dangerous with trenches and ruts. There was no place to turn around, as I was surrounded by rice fields on either side, so close I could almost reach out and touch them.

I drove for a little longer, hoping wherever this road led it would be a place big enough for me to turn around. If I didn’t, I’d have to carefully drive backwards for a couple of miles. But I soon came upon an old house set in a clearing of dried-up grass in an over-grown lawn. I felt like I was the first soul the property had seen in at least a year. There was a small barn behind it, not painted, and the decaying wood looked like it wouldn’t survive one more storm. Near it was a set of small cages.
Rabbit cages at one
time
, I supposed. The late afternoon sun was slanted against the barn, creating deep shadows on the other side. In the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move there. But I was exhausted, and it was dark in those corners between the barn and the tangled foliage that surrounded it. I quickly dismissed my imagination.

I drove up closer and slowly turned around in the clearing. As I turned, I saw the barn from a new angle. I could barely make out rusted farm equipment in the dusty beams of sunlight that penetrated the dirty glass of the windows. All I saw was the equipment, but there was something about it that made me shudder. I turned off the AC that instant and drove back the way I had come.

It took me nearly another hour to find a main road. I came to a gas station, swallowed my pride, and got down to ask for directions. It turned out I was on the right road, headed for Lake Charles, which was about seventeen miles east of the station. I thanked the worker behind the counter and continued on to the city. Once I finally saw the Lake Charles city limits, I found the nearest motel, a Days Inn, and spent the night.

Lake Charles wasn’t technically considered part of Acadiana but it was pretty close. It’s always had a huge shrimping industry and is currently gambler-friendly. When I woke up, it was mid-afternoon on June first. I was upset about missing the check-out time, and knew I’d have to pay for another night, even though I wasn’t staying. I left the parking lot of the Days Inn and continued down I-10, all the way to Lafayette.

Once in Lafayette, I hit highway 167 and drove until I reached Abbeville, that small, sleepy Southern town with the Vermilion River coursing through it. It had a population of just under twelve thousand and felt like it, especially after coming from L.A. where I was an insignificant spec among the four million inhabitants.

The sun, now a glowing orange ball set low in the sky, was about to sleep for the night. I pulled up to Clothilde’s dated two-story house and into the grassy driveway which was overrun with weeds. The front steps of the porch were supposed to be white, but they were stained green by the surrounding flora. The house itself had suffered years of neglect, so there were gray patches here and there from chipped paint that should have been white like the steps. Clothilde’s house had lived through twelve hurricanes and looked it. She was in an old wooden rocking chair on the screened-in porch. I took a deep breath, turned off the ignition, grabbed my overnight bag, and walked over to the porch.

“Supper’s on the table,” she said without missing a beat. I nodded and slowly entered the porch and then the house. “Maison bienvenue,” she said gently, before I let the screen door close behind me. I didn’t have to struggle to understand the French words she just spoke. It was what she said to David and me every day when we came home from school after Mom died, when Clothilde was helping to raise us. What she said was,
Welcome home.

The smell in the kitchen was amazing. She had made a simple rice and gravy with pork. It was a Louisiana staple. There was a pitcher of sweet tea with a couple of mint leaves floating around in it. A running joke is that sweet tea is the house wine of the South. I helped myself to a generous portion of rice and gravy and poured myself a tall glass of the house wine and sat at the kitchen table. I ate quickly, not realizing how hungry I was. Clothilde stayed on the porch, I guess figuring that I wanted to be alone, and I was grateful for that.

When I was finished, I washed my dishes, picked up my bag and went upstairs to the bedroom where I used to sleep when I would spend the night here. It was my mother’s bedroom when she was growing up. It was the second door from the right. I opened it and saw Lyla sleeping with the covers pulled up to her chin.

I tip-toed up to the bed. The room glowed a soft amber color from the white lily night light by the dresser in the corner. It was the same night light that had been there for as long as I could remember. Lyla looked peaceful. I was sure Clothilde was still giving her something at night to help her sleep. She had done that with me after mom died.

I reached down to lightly stroke Lyla’s soft brown hair. She didn’t stir. I sighed, wondering again why I was there.
To protect her from the Dark Man
, my mind whispered. But I didn’t know how to do that because I didn’t even know how to find the Dark Man or even if he existed. Perhaps he was just the product of Lucas’ ghost story and my over-active imagination. Still, I couldn’t shake that feeling that I had to protect Lyla from something, anything … everything. Maybe Clothilde was right. She was my responsibility now. If I didn’t have a motherly instinct before, it was surely creeping in now.