A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words Contest Entry #3
Winner of the Twilight award (scary, vamp only) and the Carrie award (best newbie)!
Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler
by
Audrey Snow
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Twilight (although I wish I did). That privilege belongs to Stephenie Meyer.
Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler: Cajun French for "let the good times roll". Commonly heard in Louisiana.
It's hotter out than a 2 pistol. We ain't ever seen a heatwave like this before here in Iberia Parish, 'specially not in October. And it ain't just the heat—it's the humidity. Lord have mercy, walkin' out of the AC'ed diner at the end of my shift was like gettin' slapped by a wet sponge. But when I'm standin' in the overgrown yard of this abandoned swamp mansion, a chill like an electric current sweeps over me, the kind that makes you shiver so hard that your bones rattle. "This place is, like, so creepy," whispers Jess, and ain't that the truth. The manor looms large above us, strangled by Spanish Moss that rustles in the torrid breeze like crepe paper, the facade pocked with tall, skinny windows that make me avert my gaze, 'cause I feel like if I stare too long into 'em, I might just see somethin' starin' back.
A mosquito that seems to be the size of my fist drones past, and when it lands on my arm and sink its fangs into me, I slap it, and it explodes, sprayin' me with blood and guts and viscera, and I feel my breakfast ticklin' the back of my throat, 'cause I hate bugs. I can only imagine what kind of critters are lurkin' inside the walls of this spooky ol' house. Ick.
"Where'd you even find out about this place, anyway?" asks Lauren, and suddenly Jess seems to be less concerned with wraiths and haints and whatnot, and more concerned with stayin' off that high cotton Lauren Mallory's shit list, 'cause she's rollin' her eyes at me and struttin' around like she ain't afraid of nothin'.
I heave a deep sigh, partly 'cause these two are drivin' me madder than a Wampus Cat in a rainstorm with all their bitchin', which they've been at all night—about the weather, about the walk, about how if they had their druthers, we'd be gettin' drunk and enterin' a contest for sluttiest costume at some frat house Halloween party—but mostly 'cause I'm tryin' to calm down. "That new waitress at work, Bella. Her and her feller live down yonder."
Lauren scoffs. "Ain't nobody livin' out here."
It occurs to me that she's right—I was born here in Iberia, I live here in Iberia, and I will probably die here in Iberia; I know these roads like the back of my hand, and I ain't never seen nobody down this one. Honestly, before tonight, I didn't even know this part of town existed. We fought through almost three miles of virgin marsh to get here, with no sign of life other than the chirpin' of the crickets and the gentle whoosh of the bayou. "Maybe I got the address wrong," I mutter. "Y'all, let's just go."
Lauren looks like she's windin' up to call me yellow when we hear it: a feral cry from across the yard. Our heads whip around, and there in the cradle of the dilapidated porch is Bella, pretty as a peach, the vision of a Victorian bride in a high-necked wedding gown, ringlets spillin' around her face like a mahogany halo. I hardly recognize the girl who I was carvin' pumpkins with not two hours ago, the girl who walked into Newton's Diner three weeks ago with a job application and a pair of jean shorts that made ol' man Newton's eyes just about bug out of his head.
"Angie!" she sobs. The full moon above casts her in a waxen glow, and there's a kind of primal fear in her eyes that makes me nauseous. "H-help me! He's comin'—"
Just as quickly as she appeared, she's gone, whirled away on the trail of a bloodcurdling scream.
Jessica is the first to speak. "Fuck this," she whispers.
And then she's runnin', runnin' as fast as her skinny little legs can carry her, and Lauren is right behind her, and I am utterly alone, my mind ping-pongin' between my options. I have a choice to make: do I follow suit and bail, or do I help my friend?
Fuck. Do I really have a choice? I can't let her die. Maybe I can call 911.
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. "Shit," I spit when I realize I ain't got one single bar out here in east Jesus nowhere.
I'm out of options. I have to help her.
I steel myself. I dig the pepper spray that my daddy gave me out of my purse and force my feet to carry me forward, each step an insurmountable task, like I'm pushin' up against a brick wall, tryin' to break through to the other side.
Crossing the threshold feels like an Olympic trial. The first thing I notice when I step inside is that it's quiet—too quiet. I can't even hear the crickets anymore.
I yelp when the silence is broken by the sound of a discordant piano note echoin' from somewhere in the house that sends a shiver up my spine. But I'm driven forward as the tone drones into silence and is replaced by the sound of Bella, sobbin' ever so quietly. "Angela, help," she croaks.
I step into the parlor.
There's a man, if that's what he is—he's ethereal, inhumanly beautiful, but somethin' about him just ain't right. He's got her trapped in his arms, his teeth grazin' the pale flesh that's stretched over her carotid artery, and she's starin' right at me, her dark eyes beseeching. "Please," she whimpers, turnin' her head to face him. "Please, mister, let us go. I'm only eighteen. I got my whole life ahead of me."
"Isabella," he says, cupping her cheek tenderly. "We both know that's not true."
I can't even scream. I'm frozen, rooted to the spot.
She turns to me. She grins.
A set of fangs descend.
"Happy Halloween, Angela," she says. "You really should have gone with your friends."
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! And thank you to the judges of the APWTW contest for selecting my entry as the winner of the Twilight and Carrie awards. I am so psyched!
Please leave me some love and I will be back soon with something a bit longer!
XO,
Audrey