The Swamp, A Jealous Lover

Macie changes lanes again in the roundabout and feels frustrated, she’s circled the block of Beau’s office building for the fourth time, and he’s yet to appear curbside. Managing traffic through any central business district’s congested paradigm seems pointless if nothing ever changes. She calls him. 

“Beau, where are you?” Macie asks. “How many times do you expect me to drive past your building and see you’re still not out front?”

    “Issues with the elevator. I’m on my way, babe,” Beau says. “Sorry, taking the stairs.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she says. “I manage to leave work on time, why can’t you?”

“Not getting the weekend off to a great start here, Macie. Remember? It was your idea to drive one car...”

“I’m circling the block one more time,” Macie interrupts, “and then I’m going home. At this rate, what’s the point? We’ll never make our flight.”

Beau grabs his computer bag from across his cedar desk. Then closes and locks the office door. He wants to smooth things over with Macie, otherwise, wedding plans may evaporate as quickly as Beau’s latest explanation for disappointing her. The mystique of spending the weekend snuggled up in a cabin nestled deep in a Southeast Louisiana swamp should help make her happy.

He hears the creaking halt of the office building’s elevator. “Hold it, please.” By the time Beau turns the corner, he watches the doors close on the sexy blonde from the accounting firm across the hall, who winks and blows him a kiss. He heads for the stairwell and busts through the exit door in time to see Maci’s car approaching. He throws his bag in the back and slides into the seat.

    “Finally,” Macie says. “Can we change the flight from our phones?” 

    “I’m gonna try; concentrate on driving,” he says. “How many people can be headed to New Orleans in early December?”

    Turns out, a lot. The airline app freezes on Beau’s phone.

“Call the 800 number,” Macie says.

“No one’s answering.” He scrolls on his phone to locate the airline’s next flight. “There’s another one in an hour, let’s make sure we’re on it.”

“Tell me more about this cabin,” Macie asks.

“It’s located an hour west of New Orleans, on Lafitte’s Swamp behind an old plantation home, totally isolated,” he says. He reaches over the console, places his hand on Macie’s thigh. 

“There’s only one cabin?”

“Several cabins,” he says. “I reserved the best one. My dad knows the guy who owns the property.”

“Sounds spooky,” Macie mutters. “What if it’s not what we expect? Can we stay in the plantation, instead?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” As she pulls into the parking lot, Macie smiles, wraps Beau’s fingers within hers, and leans in for a kiss.

They buy the two remaining tickets on the last flight to the Crescent City.  At the back of the plane. Macie shoves her parka in the overhead bin, then maneuvers to the window seat.

     Shaking his head, Beau says, “Woman, why’d you bring a coat? You know it’s warm and muggy there.”

“It might storm, Beau, and there’s nothing worse than a cold Louisiana rain. Besides, I tuck my chargers in the pockets.”

“The window seat, again?” Beau teases, as he maneuvers his computer bag underneath the space in front of him.

“Some things don’t change.”

“Do you want a drink?” Beau asks before Macie settles in. He knows the answer, she’ll be asleep right after takeoff. Beau orders a Jack and a Coke when the flight attendant finally reaches the back. And another one 15 minutes later. A wink at the middle-aged attendant provides an extra tiny bottle. Or two. At no charge. 

After landing in the Big Easy, they wait an hour for a rental car. Macie wanders through one of the shops and picks up a small grey book entitled Louisiana Ghosts. Might come in handy. While she flips through its pages and reads of swamp hauntings, Beau complains loudly. She feels as if someone in the shop is watching her, but when Macie turns around to check, no one’s there.

Beau signs the lease agreement, as the primary driver, but ten minutes into crossing the Bonnet Carre´ Spillway, Macie decides differently. 

“Beau, are you drunk?”

    “No, just…just having a hard time seeing. It’s bloody dark out here,” he says, swerving into the right lane. 

“Slow down, Beau, seriously,” Macie pleads as her fiancé approaches 85 miles per hour. “I don’t want to end up at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain.” Beau accelerates in the curve as he leaves the spillway behind them.

"Pull off on the shoulder. Right now!” Macie yells. He skids into the emergency lane.

“How much did you drink on the plane?”

“Too much,” he answers. “Take over.”

Beau opens the car door and shuts it immediately against the force of a truck whizzing by. “Jesus, I don’t remember this highway being such a freeway.” He tries again, then stands by the concrete barrier on the shoulder, brushes the branches of a cypress tree from his face, and waits for Macie to get out of the vehicle. 

But Macie sits stock-still, staring straight ahead. “Macie, get out of the car,” Beau shouts.

With both hands braced on the steering wheel, she’s flummoxed by a shadow figure drifting, haltingly, across the windshield. Macie doesn’t move her focus away from its piercing white eyes. A rush of cold air drifts right through her. Where’s this coming from? The cypress trees hanging over the side of I-10?

Beau reaches in his jacket pocket for a cigarette and moves to open her door. She slams the lock button.

“Open the goddamn door, Macie. Right now,” he yells.

Macie shakes her head, furiously, and points to the dark figure ahead. “I’m not getting out of the car as long as that shadow is out there,” she says. The figure shifts within three feet of Beau. Its eye shapes still focus on Macie.

“What shadow?”

“That black one, can’t you see it?”

Beau exhales the drag on his cigarette and squints his eyes in the direction that Macie’s pointing. He sees nothing except the blur of cars and trucks speeding past. He signals for her to lower the window.

“Baby, there’s nothing out here but you and me and a shitload of traffic. Either get out of the car and move to the driver’s seat, or I’m getting back behind the wheel.”

She strains to locate the figure again but sees nothing. “Okay,” she says, and gingerly opens the door. Macie braces herself against the front fender, banking on the car’s blanket of security, to get to the driver’s side.

“Thank, God,” Beau says when she slips into the seat. “You’ve been looking at too many paranormal shows, Macie,” Beau says. “Not every inch of Louisiana is haunted with spirits.”

“I didn’t make it up, Beau. I know what I saw,” Macie says. “Now that I’m thinking of it, I’ve felt weird since we landed, as if someone’s behind me, following me,” she explains.

“Have no idea what you’re saying, woman,” he says, pitching his cigarette butt out the window.  Knowing how fruitless an argument with Beau can be, Macie drives. She settles for asking him to navigate directions. “You’re managing the Google map, Beau. Don’t let us get turned around.”

“More so than we already are?” he laughs. “Really, Macie, what happened back there?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just get to the cabin.”

Thirty minutes later Macie follows the curves of the dark two-lane River Road, which hugs the banks of the Mississippi River. And drives right past Ashley Plantation hidden behind a canopy of live oak trees.

Beau sees a weathered sign for deLaurent’s Swamp Cabins.  “Turn left, here,” he says. “This is it. I remember my dad saying the cabins are behind the plantation house.”

Macie slows the car to a crawl. The gravel driveway seems to have no end. “I don’t like this, Beau,” Macie says. 

“It’ll be okay. Remember? We weren’t supposed to get here this late,” he says. “We’ll find our cabin, unpack…”

“Get under the quilts, open the scotch,” she finishes.

“That’s my girl!”

An open arena equipped with picnic tables and grills springs forth. Outdoor spotlights help them locate a place to park. Even though a dozen cabins are arranged in a backward crescent shape, it’s clear no other cabin is occupied.

“Which one is ours?”

“The third one, number three. The one with a pier.” 

“And the key?”

“In the lockbox,” he says. “The combination’s on my phone.” He searches his jacket’s pockets, repeatedly. Then starts to panic.

“Macie, where’s my phone?”

“I have no idea, Beau,” she says. “I’m not in charge of your phone.” Tired of driving, she gets out of the car to look around the place.

He empties both pockets, they search the car’s interior. The phone is missing.

“You just had the phone, Beau. How else did you use the map app?”

“Used yours, Macie.” Beau runs his fingers through his hair, turns around to access the cabin complex, and says, “I guess mine fell out back when we switched drivers. Damn it!”

“Now what, genius?” Macie says, exhausted from the trip. “I’m not staying out here tonight, sleeping in a car, behind this scary Scarlet O’Hara house, or whatever it is.”

“Let’s use common sense,” Beau says. “Maybe there’s a window we can crawl in.”

“Best be quick because I’m ready to drive to Baton Rouge and get a hotel room. And a hot bath.”

“Ugh, no. I didn’t fly down here from Ohio to spend the weekend in a chain hotel up the road,” he says, pulling her closer. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”  

“I’ve already had mine for the night,” Macie says.

“Give me a little credit, babe,” he says, holding her tightly, grabbing her backside. “Just you wait, best is yet to come.”

Since the front windows are too small for entry, Beau suggests checking the rear of the cabin. He finds a flashlight in the car’s trunk to guide their path. When he shines its light across the backside, the view is worth every effort it’s taken to get here.

   The cabins surround a huge swamp that’s cloistered with cypress and live oak trees, naturally decorated with trailing strands of Spanish moss. A blood-red moon, with circles of yellow and orange surrounding it, sits high in the sky casting a rippling light across the water that welcomes no movement.  At the end of Cabin Three’s property line, they spot a winding wooden pier where a pirogue is tied against a mooring. It drifts listlessly in a steady December breeze.

  “It’s beautiful,” Macie says, “in a freaky sort of way.”

    “Walk to the pier with me, babe,” he says.

“I’d rather make sure we can get into the cabin,” Macie counters. While she slowly runs her forefinger up the center of Beau’s chest she adds, “so we can build a fire and snuggle under quilts.”

    Beau’s lips press into Macie’s, his tongue flirts with hers. “If you insist.”

“Let’s guess a code, for the lockbox. Before we break a window?”

“Worth a try.”

“Think hard. How many numbers? Maybe they asked for digits you’d remember, like your birthday.”

When they turn from the swamp and toward the cabin, Macie hears twigs breaking off in the distance, in a rhythmic pattern. 

“What was that, Beau?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t hear a thing.

Their first attempt fails. So does their second. When the flashlight begins to flicker, Macie walks back to the car to grab her phone for backup. She touches the flashlight app and sees her battery is at five percent. She reaches in the back seat for her jacket to grab the charger, but it’s not there. It’s not in the trunk, either. 

   “Beau, have you seen my jacket?” she yells.

    “No, Macie; get back over here with the light, please. The flashlight’s nearly busted, and I’ve tried every number I can think of.”

“Try 103084,” she says. 

“Your birthday! Of course.” Beau rolls the numbers into place and the lock releases just as the flashlight dies. He opens the door and searches for a light switch.

When Macie walks in, she sees a quaint cabin decorated with leather sofas and a Victorian four-poster bed wrapped in mosquito netting. A pile of wood stacked next to the fireplace beckons them indoors. While Macie investigates the bathroom and its white bear-claw tub, Beau brings in their bags. 

“How ‘bout that scotch?” he asks.

   “I’ll look for the glasses, you get a fire started.”

     Macie explores the small kitchenette. The refrigerator is stocked as promised with fruit, cheese, and a couple of bottles of wine. As she closes the door, Macie feels a frosty gust of air and wonders if there’s an opening in the cabin’s wall. Odd. It’s not even cold outdoors. She finds the high ball glasses, adds ice, fills them with scotch. Then joins Beau in front of the fire. 

   Macie hands Beau his drink. “Cheers.”

“To our weekend,” he says. Macie watches him take two swigs of his drink then pulls him closer, to taste the ice-cold scotch on his tongue.

   "Here, in front of the fire?” she offers.

   “Why not? It’s not like anyone here’s to watch us.”

     Macie pulls the quilt from the bed and spreads it out in front of the fireplace. They sink onto the floor, into each other’s arms. Somewhere between Beau’s mouth on her neck and him pressing against her, Macie hears loud scratching sounds on the roof.

      Beau hears the noise, this time. “What the hell is that?”

      The sound becomes deafening as if the roof could cave in from the sheer weight of the noise. Beau races to the door to make sure it’s bolted. Then checks the windows. 

“It followed us…out here,” Macie says, blankly. 

    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Beau whispers, “No one’s followed us here.”

    "Not a person, it’s not a person. It’s a thing. And it wants one of us.”  Macie utters the words as if she’s reading from a script.

“You’re starting to scare me, Macie. Stop, please,” Beau says, wrapping the tail end of the quilt around her before cuddling up next to her. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t believe that you saw a figure, a spirit, back on the highway. But you don’t need to keep up this charade.”

They sit, arm-in-arm, and watch the fire. Finally, the racket stops. Beau stands to stoke the fire, adds another log. The clean burn of the pecan wood is intoxicating. For a moment, Macie feels safe.

“Pour us another drink?”

“Good idea, then I’m going outside to see what that was. Probably a raccoon looking for food.” 

"You don’t want to do that, Beau. You won’t be able to get back inside.”

   “Woman, what are you talking about? If the lock catches, you’ll let me in.”

    Macie turns to face Beau with eyes he does not recognize. The lights in the cabin flicker. On. Off. Then disappear. The scratching sound starts up again. 

"Turn on your phone’s flashlight, Macie, we need to see.”

“Phone’s dead.”

  "You forgot to charge it?”

    “Charger’s in my coat pocket. And I left my coat on the plane.”

“Jesus Christ! How many things can go wrong?” Beau yells.

“It doesn’t want us here,” Macie says, her voice escalating. “We need to go.” The scratching sounds stop.

“Let me get this straight. You want to open the door, leave, and do what? Run to the pier and swim through the swamp?”

“Yes, if that’s what it takes because something really bad is going to happen to us if we stay.”

   Since the scratching sounds are associated with the fire, they devise a plan of distraction. But it’ll take swift deft movements and a roll of the dice. Macie gathers glassware to stack up next to the cabin’s door. Beau digs in the log basket for kindling and has his cigarette lighter handy.

As soon as Macie opens the front door, he grabs the log basket and runs to the clearing near the picnic tables. He lights the kindling and starts a fire, adding one log at a time, praying it catches. Together they throw kindling and glass after glass into the fire until it crackles and builds strength.

Back inside Beau finds his computer bag, Macie locates her purse, her phone, and they run out the cabin’s back door. As they race to the pier, they hear twigs snapping up all around them.

“Don’t look back, Macie,” Beau yells. “Get in the pirogue.”

She stands frozen on the pier, unable to move. Beau jumps down into the small boat and pulls his fiancé in. He grabs the oars and starts to paddle, furiously, into the swamp’s waters, keeping an eye out for alligators.

    "Keep your hands out of the water, Macie, we’re getting out of here.” 

Macie shivers as a cold draft rolls through her, despite the warmth of the muggy night. A deep fog sets in as Beau navigates to the center of the swamp. He remembers enough of his Boy Scout days to follow the water’s flow.

When they hear a loud explosion from the cabin, Beau turns around to see a massive fire burning out of control.

“God, what a nightmare,” he says. “You okay, Macie?”

“Keep paddling, Beau.”

“I almost lost you, babe.”

“I almost lost myself.”

The chirps of the swamp sparrows sing a welcoming chorus, guiding them to safety. They leave behind the hauntings of an unknown world, cloaked in a violent past that no respite can soothe.