Midnight in the Bayou
He really couldn’t blame the car, could he? His ‘76 Chevrolet Caprice was little more than a shadow of its former self; its edges had been reduced to rugged sanguine strips of rust over time, now only lightly obscured by the few chips of scarlet sun-bleached paint that still clung to it. Though it was far past its prime, he’d grown attached to the old rustbucket and had even named her Sandy. The trip had been going fine. If you’d asked him an hour ago, he would have told you that nothing, or at least nothing serious, was wrong. But now he was stranded in the middle of the swamp. Sandy had gone kaput. He turned the key and she wheezed and groaned. The engine didn’t start. He laid into the horn, “Fuck! This was the meeting,” he groaned to himself as he threw himself back in his seat, “this was THE meeting.” The man, James Forrester, was a salesman for a small business in New York. He opened the glove compartment and shuffled through his little brother’s Dinosaurs Attack! Cards. He’d rolled his eyes when his brother insisted that he bring them along with him, but seeing them now helped to clear his head. He paused and shuffled through a few of them: dinosaurs with elongated heads feasting on a school bus captioned “Lunch Break,” something that looked like the loch-ness monster wrapping around the Statue of Liberty captioned “A Lady in Distress,” and another card with a man surfing on top of a dinosaur captioned “The Perfect Wave.” that one got a chuckle from him so he tucked it into his breast pocket. “For luck,” he muttered to himself as he continued to dig through the array of user manuals and instruction manuals in his glove compartment before finally finding what he was looking for, the old creased map that he’d plotted the whole trip on. According to the map, there was a small town nearby so he set off. Practicing his sales pitch out loud as he walked. He’d been walking for what felt like an eternity. The sun had mostly set and it was getting dark. The path he was walking on was paved with fog and his shoes were caked in mud; he’d have to find someplace to polish them before his meeting. He continued forward, eyes occasionally darting into the swamp surveying any perceived movement. He could swear there were eyes on every log he passed, watching him. But it was just a trick of the light or lack thereof. When James’ legs felt like lead and the last light of hope had long set over the twisted alien trees, a gentle orange glow broke through their scraggly branches and hanging vines. Shadows bounced as it flowed over them like thick honey. His legs miraculously felt lighter and his hope was restored. James continued forward and the source of the light soon revealed itself in the form of an old wooden cabin leaning slightly to one side. There was a small dilapidated porch constructed in front of the cabin’s main body made of dark, seemingly rotten, wood where a man sat reading beside a gas lantern balanced haphazardly on a crumbling card table. James called out to him, “Hey!” and the man turned lazily to face him, his face only half illuminated by the lantern. As James drew closer he could begin to make out his features; he was an older man with a receding hairline and long silver hair that carried the warm light behind him giving his head a golden shine like a halo. “What de- who de hell ‘r you?” “My name is James, James Forrester. I’m passing through and my car broke down a few miles out of town. Is there anyone nearby who could take a look at it?” “Mo chagren,” he stressed the endings of his words as he spoke, a Cajun man James assumed, “Dere’s not much of any mechanic ‘round here, I fix my own car when she needs it.” “Shit. Is there anywhere I might be able to stay for the night?” “Dere’s a motel not so far dat way,” he pointed away from where James had come from, but the road ahead was obscured by thick fog, eclipsing everything except for the occasional harsh white street lights. “If I came by tomorrow morning, could you take a look at my car for me? I can pay you.” “I’ll take a look, but forget de payment. Dat’s not necessary son.” The old man reached into his pocket as he spoke, producing a sleek metallic golden lighter. “Here ya go son, a lighta, as a lagniappe. Keep de flame lit until ya make it where yer goin’.” He tossed the lighter, and though he couldn’t track its motion through the air James miraculously caught it. “What for? The fog isn’t so thick that I can’t see the ground in front of me.” “Fais-moi confiance, trust me, keep de lighter lit.” “Thank you for every- I’m sorry sir, I don’t think I caught your name.” “Carter Breaux.” “Thank you for everything, Mr. Breaux.” “Bonne chance, good luck James.” He picked up his lantern and entered his house. The faint yellow glow faded as the door closed, and James was left alone in the dark. Alone with the deafening chirping of crickets and frogs, which drowned out the questions that were now racing through his mind. He wandered further into town, lighter clutched tightly in his hand, casting peculiar shadows that twisted and danced as he moved. It was a well-spread town; he’d seen only four buildings aside from the old man’s since entering: a corner store, an old liquor store, and two single-story cabins similar to Carter’s. The chirping of frogs and crickets, as well as the occasional distant howling of wolves, was now accompanied by his voice as he trudged through the fog, “Hello Mr. Martin, it’s great to finally put a face to the name!” “What a beautiful house Mr. Martin, really it’s exquisite!” “Oh, my trip down was fine, a little bit of car trouble a few hours up but nothing too serious.” He tripped and the lighter slipped out of his hand and snapped shut as it hit the road. He dropped to the ground and ran his hands along the coarse asphalt, searching for the lighter beneath the dense fog. After a moment, he found it. He turned it over in his hand, surveying it for any scratches he may have caused. There were none, he sighed. A cold wind blew through the town, momentarily dispersing the fog. He tucked the lighter away in his pocket before continuing forward, still muttering to himself, “Oh no, no trouble at all Mr. Martin.” “No, I’ve never been to Louisiana before. It’s such a beautiful state!” The cool breeze gradually subsided as James continued his endless march forward. With each step he felt more and more uneasy. He swore he could feel eyes boring into the back of his neck, watching his every move and waiting. Like a rabbit being stalked. He reignited the lighter and waved it back and forth; surveying every inch of foliage and staring deep into the swamp beyond the road, afraid of what he might see staring back. But there was nothing. Though his uneasiness melted slightly his breathing remained uneven as he returned to his advance, holding the lighter in front of himself like a crucifix in a vampire film. Brenner’s Motel the neon sign read, it was a single-story building that stretched off indefinitely into the fog. A concrete sidewalk ran alongside the building accompanied by a decrepit wooden handrail. Though the fog obstructed the further reaches of the building and the accompanying parking lot, he could feel the emptiness of it all nonetheless. Ever since Sandy had broken down he’d felt it. The more he stared at the logs he passed the more he was convinced that they were staring back at him. Every time his foot got stuck he could swear that he’d finally stepped in quicksand. He never fancied himself an anxious person; there was just something about the swamp, something that stunk of danger and urged him to find someone that he could cling to for dear life. He snapped the lighter shut and opened the old wooden door. The motel’s lobby almost uncannily mirrored its exterior. Barren, save for a chartreuse leather sofa, a small coffee table, and a counter on the opposite side of the room. The sofa was stained and white stuffing forced its way through small holes scattered across its surface. James heard a rustling sound from the opposite end of the room and snapped to face it. An old man sat up on a tall wooden stool behind the far counter, reclined against the far wall beneath a taxidermied deer head and the shotgun that had, presumably, killed it.“Excuse me sir, I’d like a room please.” The old man folded his newspaper and placed it on the counter in front of him, leaning forward. His left eye was a cloudy glass ball; his nose was fat and wrinkles ran deep across his entire face, folding across his forehead and contrasting against the smoothness of his bald head. “You’re in luck, I just so happen to have one available.” He spoke clearly in a gravelly voice without any accent. The lack of any accent put James slightly at ease and almost reminded him of home. The swamp felt a little smaller; less like an alien planet and ever so slightly more like another corner of planet earth. “How much is it for a night?” James pulled his wallet from his pocket and flipped it open, leafing through the bills inside. “Eh, 20 dollars for the night.” “20? Isn’t that a bit cheap?” He laughed, “Never heard a customer complain about cheap prices before!” “Keep the change, thank you.” James put 40 dollars on the counter between the two of them. The old man paused for a moment and produced a ledger from beneath the counter, “I’ll need a name for the room.” “Forrester, James Forrester.” “Alright,” he slid a small, rusting key across the counter, “We don’t have room service here so keep your door locked. Kids ‘round here like to play jokes so don’t pay any mind to knocking. My name’s George Brenner, you need anything just dial 1 on your room’s phone. If you need to make a long-distance call, dial 2 then the number you’re trying to reach.” “Got it.” James picked up the key; there was a flat chunk of white plastic attached to the keychain. It was difficult but he could almost see the number 13 written on it in old faded red paint. “You’re in room 13, all the way down on the left. Remember to keep the door shut, I’ll see you in the morning.” “Why room 13?” He whispered to himself as he walked to his room. As he turned the key, a chill ran down his spine and he felt it again. Once again he was a rabbit, being stalked by some predator’s eyes. It was dark, James fumbled around for a moment before his hands ran over the light switch beside the door. He flipped it and the room was bathed in a flickering orange light, cast by a small lamp sitting next to the Gideon Bible on the bedside table. It was a small room with no decoration. Against the far wall there was a bed with brown covers, and an empty wooden wardrobe stood at the foot of the bed. There was a small bathroom to the left, just a toilet and a sink, not even a door to separate the two rooms. He fell into the bed and stared at the stucco ceiling, unable to relax. Partially on account of the bed’s rock hard mattress but more so due to the unshakable feeling of eyes. A minute passed and James walked to the blinds, pinching them apart and looking out into the swamp. Nothing. The parking lot was no less empty than it had been before. He pulled the pleated curtains over the blinds and returned to his bed; his stomach rumbled as he sat down. He’d passed one of those classic diners on his way, one of the ones built to look like something straight out of the 50s. He’d stop there in the morning on his way back to Carter’s cabin. The sounds of the swamp were drowned out by the droning of the motel’s cooling system, and he felt the gentle breeze of cold air on his face. Only now did he appreciate how sore his legs were. He hadn’t walked that far in years, not since he ran track in high school. He kicked off his shoes, which were now caked in light brown, dried mud, pulled his legs up onto the bed, and laid down on his back. His eyes shot open, there was a violent knocking at the door. The room was pitch-black though he didn’t remember turning off the light. He stood and walked towards the door, before remembering what the motel owner had told him. Damn brats, he deserved a good night’s sleep more than anyone after the day he’d had to endure, not to mention the day he had ahead. He would meet with Martin and sell like his life depended on it. He parted the curtain and looked through the blinds again, the parking lot was as empty as it ever had been. The kid was quick, that much was certain. “Hell, as long as I’m up I might as well get some fresh air.” He muttered as he turned the doorknob and stepped outside. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he was being watched since he’d checked into the hotel and, over time, it had regressed to the furthest reaches of his mind; forgotten in the same way that he’d eventually stopped registering just how drenched in sweat his shirt had become. A twig snapped outside and the paranoia crawled back into the forefront of his mind. A chill ran down his spine and his hair stood on end. James felt sick, his body cold against the humidity of the swamp. For a moment it felt as though he might vomit. “Fresh air.” he mumbled as he opened his door and lumbered into the vacant parking lot. He produced the Dinosaurs Attack! card from his breast pocket, and stared at it intently while turning it over in his hands. His focus shattered when the gravel crunched behind him. He froze in place and stood bolt upright. Warm air brushed over his neck and he felt his skin tighten, forcing his hair to stand on end. His heart sank. Whatever it was, whatever had been watching him, it was here. The parking lot stretched out before him, its emptiness almost taunting him. He imagined it, he must have. The stress from his job had gotten to him. He let loose a sigh of relief, and he could feel his heart beat in his chest. He returned to his room, eyes still boring a hole in the back of his neck. James’s head swiveled as he observed the parking lot for what felt like the thousandth time. He almost hoped that he would see something, some local kids, wildlife, anything to prove to himself that he wasn’t crazy. It was empty, though for a split second, as he turned to enter his room, he swore that he saw the silhouette of something across the lot. “Just the stress. It’s just the stress,” he whispered to himself as his door creaked shut. His head was pounding as his eyes blinked open, groggily. The room was hot and there was a sound like scratching at the door. “Damn kids. Hey! Knock that off!” James rolled out of the bed and raced to the window, peeling the blinds open to see outside. He froze and took a step backward, pinching himself. The scratching was soon replaced by pounding and the door shook on its hinges. James searched the room desperately for something, anything. The pounding continued and the door began to splinter as James squeezed himself into the wardrobe, whispering the Our Father under his breath. As he dove into the wardrobe the wooden door gave way, collapsing and slamming to the floor just short of James’s hiding place. It walked into the room. It was huge, hunched over it was at least 10 feet tall. Its body was vaguely human, covered in a thick layer of matted gray hair, occasionally broken up by stretches of scabs and lesions. An abhorrent stench permeated the room and James had to cover his mouth to keep himself from gagging. Its face was something straight out of a nightmare. Between its elongated jaw and rugged pointed ears. As it moved shadows tapered its silhouette shifting it constantly between something canine and something almost human. James stared through the small opening between the wardrobe doors as the beast lumbered forward into the room. He could feel his heart beating in his chest as the beast moved closer to his bed, though it was out of sight, James could hear the creaking of wood beside him. Was the monster looking for him beneath the bed? There was a terrible ripping noise beside him as the beast tore through the carpet, and James could feel the monster turning to look at him. There weren’t many places for someone to hide in the glorified sardine can he was staying in, and if the creature knew to check under the bed surely the wardrobe was next.Before he realized it, he was running. Over the defeated wooden door and into the empty parking lot, he screamed as he ran and prayed that by some miracle Brenner was still awake. The monster was breathing heavily, and he could hear its claws scrape across the ground just behind him. He stepped off the lot and his foot sank into the mud, soaking through his sock. He couldn’t run from it through the swamp, he’d had enough trouble making his way to town at a snail’s pace. So he reluctantly turned to face the creature.Its stench engulfed him and the beast towered over him. Drool rolling from its mouth and falling towards the ground as it let loose a low anticipatory growl. James stared into its deep-set, hollow eyes. They were starved, ravenous, and oddly human, like the eyes of a serial killer or a cannibal. He tried to take a step back as it sprung towards him, tripping in the mud and narrowly avoiding its jaws. James fell to the ground and looked up at the creature as its claw plunged toward his chest. He rolled to the side, but he was too slow. It plunged into his breast pocket, stabbing through his little brother’s trading card and the plastic attachment of his room key, burying its claws into his chest. He gasped for air and reeled in pain as it withdrew its claw. The beast waited a moment, reveling in his pain before swinging its claw down towards James once more. Through his pain, maybe hyper focused because of it, James anticipated its attack and rolled to his left standing up weakly and gasping for air. He stared at the beast, frozen by fear. For a moment the world stood still, the beast hadn’t yet turned to face him, his chest screamed out in pain and he could feel his blood oozing out and staining his shirt. He saw his mother holding a camera up on Christmas morning, his father humming Glen Campbell’s “Southern Nights” while flipping pancakes, and his brother in a pointy hat positioned to extinguish the candles laid out on the cake in front of him. “This is it,” he thought. Memories flooded his head, shoving each other out of the way in a desperate attempt to be recalled one last time. There was a deafening sound and the beast lurched forward. “Get out of here you bastard! Now, get!” James saw a silhouette racing towards them from across the lot, there was another bang and the beast stumbled forward again. “Come on you mangy mutt! Get!” Over his deafening heartbeat and the beasts wails he recognized it now to be Brenner’s voice. “Don’t make me tell you again, get god dammit!” Brenner shouted as he reloaded his shotgun. The beast turned to face him, releasing a blood-curdling howl; Brenner didn’t waver for even a moment, he squinted his good eye over the top of the shotgun and fired again. The creature roared once more before falling onto all four of its legs and hobbling into the swamp snapping and growling as it went. “I told you to keep your door locked, didn’t I? Jesus Christ James, what didn’t you understand!?” James didn’t remember pissing his pants, but they were soaked. “I’m sorry sir, I thought-” “Jesus Christ, of course you thought. They always think, God dammit.” Between wheezes he managed a, “Thank you, Mr. Brenner-” “Did it hurt you at all? We need to get you inside before that bastard comes back. They always come back.” Brenner threw James’s arm over his shoulders and supported him as they crossed the lot again. “Thank you Mr. Brenner. Thank you.” “What was that thing?” “Around here folks call it the ‘Rougarou,’ nobody knows where the hell it came from. A few months back dogs, cats, chickens started going missing, then the sightings started. We all know better than to go out after dark these days. I’ve got a first aid kit back in the lobby, we’ll patch you up there.” “Is that what the lighter was for?” “The lighter?” James pulled the lighter out of his pocket and handed it to Brenner. He lit it and carefully observed the flame before speaking, “Sure enough. Who gave this to you?” “Carter at the edge of town.” “Good man, that Carter. From a good family.” Brenner pushed the door to the lobby open and walked James to the old sofa. “Take your shirt off and keep pressure on your chest, helps with the bleeding, keeps it off my sofa.” James sat down as Brenner crossed the room and returned the shotgun to its hooks beside the deer, shouting as he did, “This lighter, did you notice the smell?” “The smell?” “This lighter’s burning a special fluid. See look, the color is slightly off and it has a scent to it. Wolfsbane.” “Wolfsbane?” Brenner crossed the room again and sat next to James on the sofa, red first-aid kit in hand.“As the name suggests, the mangy son of a bitch can’t stand the shit.” Brenner handed the lighter back to him and began to dress his wound with gauze. James flicked the lighter open and smelled it. Sure enough, there was a faint dark scent hidden beneath the smoke. “I bet you let it go out didn’t you?” James thought for a moment, “Yes, I dropped it.” “Well there’s your Goddamn problem. That’s when it caught your scent, was probably tracking you from then.” “The knocking, there was knocking at my door before.” George finished bandaging his chest and James’s heart rate had slowed back down, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. “Beats me. Like I said, we don’t have room service.” “I felt it standing behind me, I-” “The sick bastard’s been known to toy with its prey.” James sunk into the sofa and exhaled, “If not for you I’d be dead now. Thank you.” “Hell, you were a good tipper. I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” Brenner winked as he zipped his first-aid kit shut. James chuckled softly and closed his eyes. The adrenaline had left his body and he was crashing hard. His eyes blinked shut to the sound of a rustling newspaper and the soft, incessant hum of fluorescent lights. His eyes opened slowly, he was still sitting on the dilapidated couch, his chest ached, and his mouth was hanging open. He looked around but Mr. Brenner wasn’t in the room. His pants had dried, mostly, and he could almost write his near-death encounter off as little more than a bad dream. He reached into his breast pocket, his room key had vanished. “Brenner must’ve taken it this morning,” he muttered under his breath before pulling out his brother’s trading card. It had been impaled and stained crimson during last night’s struggle. James turned it over in his hands. The door opened, and Brenner and Carter walked in. “Good, he’s awake,” Brenner said. “I heard dat you had quite de interesting night last night son,” Carter said. James sighed. “So dat car of yours, should we go take a look under de hood now?” The car? The car! It had completely slipped James’s mind, and so had his meeting with Mr. Martin. “What time is it?” He asked. “It’s a little after 9,” Brenner cut in while sweeping the far side of the room with an old broom. “9?” “Dat’s what he said.” James wasn’t going to make it, it wasn’t even close. But the meeting seemed much less important, he continued turning the card over in his hands. “You had somewhere to be, Oui? De car, shouldn’t we be fixing it?” “There’s no rush Mr. Breaux, thank you. I need to make a few calls.” James stood up and walked across the room. “You can use the phone behind the counter if you’d like. Just dial 2 before the number alright?” “Right, thank you, Mr. Brenner.” He called his mother first. He told her he loved her and that he’d be taking the train home. She protested at first, since the Canot Rail accident she’d been insisting that James should stay away from trains. If she could’ve only seen what he’d experienced as a consequence of driving, maybe then she wouldn’t make such a big stink. Second he called Mr. Martin, making small talk before eventually asking whether he’d be able to push their meeting back to the next morning. Eventually he agreed and James said goodbye. “Mr. Breaux, are you ready?” “I’m ready, just lead de way.” “Goodbye, Mr. Brenner, thank you for everything.” He left a hundred dollar bill on the couch as he stood. “Goodbye James. Do me a favor and watch your step, for Christ’s sake.” He yelled, still sweeping the floor across the room. James chuckled softly to himself and left the motel with Carter in tow. They walked and talked for a little less than two hours, before making it back to Sandy’s resting place. Carter looked the car up and down before whistling, “I’m surprised she even made it dis far!” James laughed as Carter popped the hood. James unbuttoned his shirt and leaned against the side of the car as Carter worked, he rubbed his bandage as he stared deep into the swamp. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Carter asked. “I almost died.” “But you didn’t.” “No, I didn’t,” Carter stood up and clapped his hands together, “Dere we go, good as new. Maybe, she should at least get you wherever you’re going.” “Thank you, Carter, for everything, I really mean it,” James picked at his bandages as he spoke, still staring deep into the swamp, “I would have died if I hadn’t found your cabin, thank you. Really, thank you for everything.” “Of course, you don’t need to repeat yourself son, now shouldn’t you get going? Don’t want to miss the same meeting twice do you?” James tore his gaze away from the shadows of the swamp, Carter was smiling at him, it was a warm smile. Like the lantern that had inadvertently saved his life by drawing them together. As he leaned back in his chair he thought about home. His little brother’s good luck charms hadn’t done anything to help and he wasn’t sure how to explain the sorry state of his card, now stained crimson and caked in dried blood. James drove Carter back to town, thanking him again as he stepped out of the car and asking him to communicate the sentiment to Brenner. He left the town behind him, watching in his rearview mirror as it sunk into the same vines and trees that had struck him with such anxiety the night before. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he resolved to leave Sandy behind and take the train home. His mom wouldn’t be happy, but it didn’t seem right to perpetuate her undeath any longer. And regardless, he didn’t want to spend another night in the Brenner Motel. Credit: Daniel Hunter Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.