Wolfsbane

Book 1: Wolf

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Horror; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

New York Times Bestselling Author: A deadly blossom grows in the rich Louisiana soil—and awakens a terrifying threat...
 
It had been years since wolfsbane grew on the bayou, yet everyone who lived in Ducros Parish, Louisiana, knew that someday it would appear again. With its pretty yellow flowers and lovely green leaves, wolfsbane was as beautiful as it was deadly. And when the townspeople saw the ancient root once again spring from the earth, they knew it wouldn't be long before they heard the terrifying howls in the night . . .
 
There were those who called the tales of wolfsbane superstition, the stuff of childhood legend. But others knew that when the flower blossomed again, so would the spilling of human blood—and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide . . .

Release date: April 12, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 213

Sample

Ducros Parish, Louisiana—1976

“What the hell is that smell?” the fisherman asked, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Damned if I know. Whew! Push us off, Roy. That’s making me sick to my stomach.”

“Paul?” Roy said, turning a little pale around the mouth. “Look to your right and tell me what you see. Just past that stob sticking out of the water.”

Paul looked. And looked. “Nothing,” he said. “What was I supposed to see?”

“I don’t know,” his friend muttered. “It’s gone, now. But I’ve never seen anything like it before. Never. Except in . . . ah! Forget it.”

“No, come on, Roy. What did you see?”

“A thing.”

“A thing?”

“I think it . . . must have been a bear.”

“There’s sure bear in here. But that wasn’t any bear, Roy. If he’d run off, we’d have heard it. All that brush over there . . . sound like a freight train goin’ through it. And bears don’t smell like that smell. You said something ’bout ‘except in.’ What’d you mean by that?”

“Well,” Roy sighed. “It . . . looked like a man with hair all over his face. Ugly. Scary-looking. And it had pointy ears, too.”

Paul started laughing.

Roy’s face reddened. “Well, goddamnit! I know what I saw. And I told you what I saw. So if you don’t believe me, then screw you!”

“Whoa!” His longtime friend held up his hand, his laughter fading into the swamp. “Easy, friend. We’re buddies, remember? You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“You still smell it, don’t you?”

His friend sniffed. They were seventy-five feet from the bank and the odor had faded. But it was still in the air. “Yeah, I do. But that was no bear, Roy. No way. He would have made some noise gettin’ away from us. You know that. We’ve hunted bear all over, and we’ve seen plenty of them.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sure, you are. Hell, I guess it was something else and my imagination just took off with me. Kinda tired; been fishin’ all day.” He laughed, patting the top of the ice chest. “And hittin’ the beer pretty good, too.”

“Let’s cut out of here, Roy-boy. Go on back to the lodge. It’s been a long day. . . . I’m tired, too.”

In the murkiness of the swamp growth, eyes watched them leave. Animal-like ears flicked at a fly, and drool dripped from a fanged mouth. The beast snarled softly, then dropped back onto the ground, curling up, to rest until full darkness. Then he would hunt.

After supper, Roy walked down to the water’s edge. He had seen the camp owner head that way, and he wanted to talk to him.

“Mr. Guilbeau?”

“Down here, son,” the man answered. “Over by the boathouse.”

Roy followed the sound of the voice and located the man. He stood for a moment in silence, trying to collect his thoughts; trying to put what he wanted to ask in such a manner that the man would not think him a fool.

“Have you lived here long, Mr. Guilbeau?”

“All my life. All sixty-one years. My family been on this bayou for two hundred years—give or take a few. Come down from Canada ’bout 1778, I tink it was. When New Iberia was founded. Yeah. Why you ask?”

“Mr Guilbeau . . . I don’t want you to think I’m drunk, or crazy, but I saw something late this afternoon. ”

“What you see?”

“Well . . . after my buddy laughed at me, I pretended that maybe I didn’t see it. Too much beer, too much fishing, you know. But I saw it. And I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. Except in the movies.”

Guilbeau straightened up and looked at the man. “You still ain’t tole me what you seen.”

“I saw . . . I saw . . . a half man, half beast,” he blurted.

“Did you now?” The fisherman and camp-owner’s voice was as soft as the bayou under moonlight. “Where you see dis ting you see?”

“Right off that bayou where you took us that first day over here. Down that chute. And there was an odor about this thing. A real bad smell.”

“Ummm. Maybe you seen the swamp man, huh?”

“Swamp man?”

“Oh, shore. We got swamp men. People been seein’ swamp men ’round here for long time. Hundred or more years. Got ’um over in the Honey Island Swamp, too. We’ve had scientists in this part of Louisiana from all over lookin’. Just lak the Bigfoot up in the nortwest. Don’t hurt nobodies. Jist curious, at’s all.”

Roy laughed, his tensions easing away. “You mean, you believe in folklore? You believe in swamp men?”

“Shore.” The Cajun grinned good-naturedly. “But I tell you what: if I was you I wouldn’t go back to where I seen the ting. He might be hongry, eh?” He punched the Mississippi man lightly on the arm and winked.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Yeah, son,” Guilbeau said. “I do believe you. Me, I seen him plenty times. But I don’t go back where I seen him for tree, four days. Jist to be on the safe side, you know?”

“Well,” Roy said, not knowing whether to believe Guilbeau or not. “Okay. But I did see something.”

“’At’s rat, you seen someting. But it din hurt you. Din try to bother you none. He don mean you no harm. Jist curious, at’s all.”

Roy stuck out his hand and the older man shook it. “We’re pulling out early in the morning, Mr. Guilbeau—headin’ back to Hernando. We’ve both enjoyed it here. Fine fishin’. And,” he smiled, “I won’t say a word about what I saw . . . to anybody. Believe me.”

“’At’s good.”

When the man from Mississippi had faded into the night, Guilbeau went to his office in the now deserted lodge and picked up the phone, quickly dialing a number. “Trahan? Where is that idiot boy of yours? Naw, don tell me he’s chained. One of my tourists seen that fool late this afternoon. You shoulda put that boy in the asylum years ago, Louie. Now I’m gonna tale you someting: that idiot boy of yours scare jist one more of my fishermen, run off my business, I’ll call the state and have him put away.”

Guilbeau listened for a moment. Despite himself, he felt a cold finger of fear touch his belly.

“Louie! A man from Mississippi seen him. Don lie to me, Louie. Okay. Fine. I see you later.”

Guilbeau turned to look into the eyes of his wife, standing behind him. “Trahan’s poor child loose again, Eddie?”

“Louie said no. Said he’s been chained all day long. He took an oath he was speakin’ to me the truth.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Eddie? Call the sheriff. It’s past time. It’s not fair to the boy to be kept chained up like he’s been. There ain’t no hope for the boy, I don care what Louie believes . . . there ain’t no hope for him. Now you either do it, or I’ll call the priest and tell him about it. I’ll call him right now.”

“You rat, Jenny.” Eddie grinned. “As usual. Yeah. Dat dog-boy belong in a place where he can get hep. Treat dat disease he got. But Jenny, if it wasn’t Trahan’s dog-boy . . . who was it? Or . . . what was it?”

Fear darted across her face. She quickly crossed herself. “Don’t you start, now, Eddie—don do it. I won’t have it . . . no more it in this house. I mean it.”

“If I din know better, I’d bet you a Bauterre was behind all it . . . whatever it is. Goddamn ’em all!”

His wife paled as the blood rushed from her face. Her husband watched as her face mirrored her dread.

“What’s wrong wit you, Jenny?”

She shook her head. “All the bad Bauterres is dead, Eddie. You-all killed them forty year ago. Least you say you did.”

“Relax, momma—calm yourself. Claude Bauterre was the last of the bad ones. He’s dead. We shot him more’un fifty time and took him to Blanchet’s Funeral Parlor. We burned him to black ash and sealed the ash in a steel box . . . burried him in tree feet of concrete.” He pointed. “Rat over there in the graveyard. Rat where he’s been since turdy-four.”

His wife shook her head.

“What you mean—non!? I hepped do it.”

“Madame Bauterre is back,” she said.

“Back here?” The question was almost a shout.

“She come back las week. Open Amour House. Talk is she’s gonna stay.”

“How come nobody seen fit to tale me ’bout dis?”

Jenny shrugged as only a Cajun can.

“Old Victoria mus be at least ninety! Who she bring wit her?”

“A lady servant. I ain’t seen her. But I heard she jus lak Madame Bauterre. And you know what I mean.”

Eddie ignored her last sentence. He shook his head in disbelief, astonished the old woman was still alive. But, should he be surprised? Since she was a . . . He refused to even think the word. But the fact that she was back chilled him. He shook off the feeling of dread.

“Ninety year old and come back. Faible?”

“Non. Not feeble at all. Gets around good, so I was tole.”

He looked at his wife. “Jenny, you holdin’ someting back from me. What else you hear?”

“Things been seen, Eddie. You know what I mean. Just lak that tourist seen today.”

Eddie fought back the rising fear in him. It was far too early for the swamp men to appear; they always came out in October. Ever since . . . He willed his mind not to remember that night. His mind refused to obey. They had been seen ever since that early morning so many years ago.

“Where you hear all dis talk?” he asked his wife.

She sulled up, refusing to look at him or reply.

“Come on, Jenny—you tale me, now. Hear?”

“Annie Metrejean,” she mumbled.

“Aw, shit!” Eddie turned away. “I tole you and tole you to stay the hell away from dat woman. She’s crazyl”

“Is she, Eddie?” Her eyes were serious. “Eddie, I’m scared. Papa was wit you men in turdy-four. Where is he? Why ain’t he been around lak he usually do? How come we ain’t seen him in three, four days?”

He put his arms around her and patted her trembling shoulder. “I’ll ride out to his place in the morning, Jenny. Check on the old man. He’s awrat. Probably fishin’, is all.”

“Annie Metrejean says bad tings gonna happen in Ducros . . . soon. Says they alratty begun in some ways.”

“Jenny,” he said, holding her close, hoping his own fear would not transmit itself to her. “I want you to stay ’way from Annie. She’s gittin’ you all worked up ’bout nuttin’. But he seriously doubted his own words. Madame Bauterre had said she would be back, and she would have her revenge. He pushed that thought from him. ”Annie is jist as bad—in her own way—as them damn Bauterres was.”

“Non!” She pulled away from him, spitting the denial at him. “She’s rat and you know it. She sees and hears tings we don’t. Everbody knows that. You know well as me who tole Sheriff Cargol ’bout Claude Bauterre. Annie Metrejean did. Said he wasn’t no bad person. Said the sheriff was pickin’ on the wrong person. And she was rat, wasn’t she?” she glared at her husband.

“I don know, Jenny. I don know what to believe no more. I don know whether the old ways was rat or not. I don know whether Annie is a sorcière or not. She ain’t lak us, I know ’at much. Prowls the bayous at night; goes into places wit her pirogue where big men won go. Believes in the old ways; won turn loose.”

“She says the roo-garous are walking.”

Eddie lost his .temper. “Goddamnit, Jenny! There ain’t no such creature as a roo-garou. Doc Lormand said Claude Bauterre had a disease. Can’t pronounce the name of it. Don ’member it. Don wanna ’member it.”

“If old Claude Bauterre had a disease, and wasn’t no roo-garou, how come you men—my papa wit you—shoot the man more’un fifty time? Burn his body? Seal him in a steel box? Burry him in tree, four feet of cement?”

“ ’Cause we was stupid, Jenny! Me, you poppa, and the priest, too. We was clingin’ to ways that never were true and ain’t true now.” He shook her like a child. “Jenny, listen to me: there ain’t no such ting as a gris-gris. No such ting as a spirit man that roams the bayous. And they ain’t no such ting as a roo-garou.”

She stubbornly shook her head. “You said you seen him change from a beast, Eddie. You been lyin’ to me all these years?”

“Non, Jenny,” he said softly. He wanted desperately to believe his own words. “But Doc Lormand said sometimes men who have this disease can really look lak a beast. Jist lak Trahan’s dog-boy! Act lak one, too. Claude Bauterre was sick in the body and in his head. And we—all of us—was drinkin’ at night. To hep our courage. Bauterre—or somebody,” he said, a sickness welling up within him. “had killed the sheriff and been prowlin’ the bayous for years. Maybe kilt tree, four others, too. Can’t be sure. But our . . . emotions was runnin’ high and hot; makes men do and see funny tings. ”

“I believe the priest, Eddie. Father Huval wasn’t wrong. He said this has happen before, here and in other places, too. Maybe we oughtta talk to the priest, Eddie. Talk to young Father Huval. Maybe his cousin tell him someting ’bout what happen ’fore he died?”

Eddie shook his head. “Old Father Huval din tale his cousin nuttin ’bout that night and followin’ day, Jenny. I know that.” He walked to the door.

“Where you goin’, Eddie?”

“To pick up LeJeune and Bares. I got to see someting wit my eyes. After that, the tree of us will ride out to see ’bout your poppa.”

Eddie picked up Tony LeJeune and Frank Bares. They drove to Claude Bauterre’s crypt. There, they all saw something. They looked in horror at something: Claude Bauterre’s ashes were gone. The steel box that had contained them was broken open.

But what chilled them all and paled their faces was the crypt: it looked as though it had not been broken into, but out of.

They drove into the country, to the house where Jenny’s father lived. The house was dark. Frank Bares crossed himself just before Eddie pushed open the door. Tony LeJeune uttered a sick, choking sound as Eddie flipped on the lights and the harshness of what lay on the floor filled the men’s eyes.

The old man was naked, and stiff with death. The body was as white as a first fall of snow. There were bite marks on his neck, on both sides, and there appeared to be not a drop of blood left in him. His eyes were wide with the shock of horrible death.

“Eddie . . .” Bares said.

“Shut up! Eddie warned him. ”Don say it. I can’t let Jenny see the old man lak this. Perverts attack him; did this. Nothing else.”

“Bauterre . . .” Bares said.

“Bauterre is dead! Vandals broke into his grave and took the ashes. People that was sick in the head. Kids maybe.”

“She said we’d all pay,” LeJeune said, his face pale under his heavy tan. “Victoria Bauterre said we’d all pay for killing her husband.”

Eddie shook his head. “No. Madmen did this. Not a roo-garou. They don exist. You, Bares . . . spill a little coal oil around the heater and set it afire. Better that way. The old man jist burned up; careless. Don nobody have to know nuttin else ’bout it.”

“We ought to tell the others, Eddie.”

Guilbeau shook his head. “Maybe . . . if someting else happens. But there ain’t gonna be nuttin else happen. And what we seen here tonight stays wit us.” His eyes touched the other men. “Rat?”

They slowly shook their heads in agreement, Bares adding, “Unless someting else happen, Eddie.”

“Don even tink it.”

Outside, a faint howling came from the dark bayou.

Bares crossed himself.

Switzerland

Janette Bauterre Simmons threw back the covers, almost savagely kicking them from her. This was the third morning in a row she had awakened in such a manner; hideous nightmares filling her sleep. Monsters, hairy beasts with animal-like faces, dripping fangs and red-rimmed eyes.

Was it a premonition of some sort? A deadly warning? Janette discounted that. She did not believe in such things. Anyone who believed in the supernatural was a fool.

She rose from the bed, slipped into a robe, and walked to the windows of the chalet, nestled in the great mountains, shaking sleep from her as she walked.

Gazing out the window, down into the valley, she felt a stirring within her. Not a sexual urging, but more a dark feeling of foreboding that she could not understand. This should be a nice vacation, away from her children, with their grandparents in St. Louis. But so far it had been a dismal flop.

Five years since Lyle was killed in that stupid car accident, she thought, her breath fogging the pane. Five years. And I have been without a man all that time, she reminded herself.

Not that there hadn’t been hundreds of opportunities, for she knew she was a beautiful woman, but Lyle had been the type of man not easily replaced.

I’ve got to get my life back in order, she thought. There has been entirely too much grief, too much aloneness. I’ve pretended it was sorrow for the last two years . . . but that’s not really true: I think I’m afraid to get involved with another man.

She had her bath, dressed, and took breakfast in her room, as was her custom. The tourists were descending upon the land like droves of locust, and Janette did not feel like sharing in their sometimes too-loud mirth.

The memory of the nightmares stayed with her all morning.

On impulse, she placed a call to her grandmother in Paris.

“Je regrette, but Madame Bauterre has gone for the summer. ”

“Gone? Where”

“Louisiana. The United States.”

“I know Louisiana is in the United States!” Janette was short with the servant. She was in mild shock. Victoria Bauterre, in her ninetieth year, seldom left the villa outside Paris. And she vehemently hated Louisiana—even though her property holdings in that state were considerable. Janette knew her grandmother had not been back to Louisiana in years. “When did she leave?”

“Ten days ago.”

“Did she leave any messages for me?”

“Oui, Madame. Said to tell you to enjoy your vacation. And do not come to Louisiana.”

“Do not?”

“Those were her instructions.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Madame Bauterre said her business there was unfinished from years ago. Something, she said, that must be attended to immediately.”

“Did she say what business?”

“Non.”

“Have my rooms ready for me,” Janette instructed. “I will be in Paris tomorrow. The mid-afternoon flight. Have someone meet me.”

“You and your husband may take the rest of the day off,” Janette instructed the maid and the caretaker. “And tomorrow as well. I want the house cleared. Instruct the guards to allow no one on the grounds. Do you understand? No one!”

“Is Madame certain? I mean . . .”

“Madame is certain.” Janette dug in her purse and handed the startled woman a fistful of francs. “A bonus. Enjoy yourself.”

The servant giggled nervously. “Oui, Madame. We shall do that.”

An hour later, the huge villa still and silent in the late afternoon, Janette glanced out the window of the hall. The guards had closed the gates. She glanced upward: the sky was growing dark, a storm approaching.

On the flight to Orly International, Janette had dozed, and the nightmares had touched her . . . as they did everytime she closed her eyes of late. But this time it had something to do with her grand’mère . . . and the old villa outside Paris. And there was a huge, beautiful old antebellum home, with a sluggish stream running beside it. The nightmare had been jumbled and confused, but one scene stood out from all the rest: there was something in her grand’mère’s rooms that was the key.

And Janette intended to find the key that would unlock the door to her nightmares and end them.

Sylvia, the haughty English housekeeper, had gone with Madame Bauterre to Louisiana. But Janette knew where she kept the ring of master keys.

The weather turned nasty in the French countryside, dark clouds moving closer to the earth, lashing the estate with heavy rain, the lights occasionally flickering off and on.

“Nightmares, now this,” Janette muttered as she walked the dimly lit hall to her grandmother’s sui. . .