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Johnny heaved a heavy sigh and laid the faded photograph of his dead family on the table. His decision was made.

“Forgive me what I do, cher.”

     He stepped over the threshold and onto his porch and closed the door to his life. His ninety-something legs carried him down the steps and out to Black Bayou Road.

     Not bad for an old man, he thought.

     The truth was Johnny didn’t know exactly how old he was. He laid claim to the title of oldest person in Bonaire Parish a few years ago and had no intention of relinquishing it one moment sooner than he must. The sound of tires on gravel coming up behind him moved him to the side of the road. His weathered thumb went up. Johnny signaling for a ride was a common sight around the Parish. He smiled knowing he struck gold. The Bonaire Parish Sheriff brought his car to a stop and motioned for Johnny to hop in.

    “Merci, little Eddie Landry. How y’all are?”

    “Out serving and protecting. Where you going, Johnny?”

     “Just to town for a spell,” Johnny replied climbing in with a wide grin.

     Da trut set you free, he thought. Tell da Sheriff doe, an’ he goan lock you up.

     The ride passed in chitchat about the weather and choice bits of local gossip. The sheriff’s Crown Vic did a fair job of smoothing out some of the bumps and potholes along the way.

     “This do you?” Landry asked as he pulled into a parking spot outside the jail.

     “Better outside den in,” Johnny replied with a laugh. “It be fine, Sheriff.”

     Johnny started across the road for the Bayou Café. When he reached the café door, he looked back to be sure the sheriff was inside his office before doubling back. He made his way around the jailhouse, cut across Jade Broussard’s backyard, and turned south along Oak Street to the edge of town. Sitting by itself on the far side was a large overgrown area that was his destination. A red dirt path angled across the grass and between scattered oak trees to a shabby, double-wide mobile home. Johnny checked the paper in his shirt, nodded, and entered onto the path.

     He muttered a string of obscenities when his first knock on the door went unanswered.

     Dat’s a sign.

     He turned to go and reached the bottom step when he heard the door open.

     “Where you going, old man?” a man’s voice asked.

     Johnny moved to face the man in the door. Each strand of his dark black hair seemed to be going in a different direction making Johnny want to look away before he turned to stone. The man’s perpetual smirk, deep brown eyes crowned with heavy brows, and gold earrings changed his mind. What Johnny really wanted was to crush the man’s thin lips beneath his fist.

     Maybe soon.

     “Mais la, Mike. I’m gettin’ away from dat stink you burnin’ in dere.”

     “What I’m burning is what you asked for. That is unless you’ve changed your mind.” He looked Johnny up and down, and that thin upper lip curled up on the right. “I guess I had you pegged right. You’re all mouth.”

     “We just see about dat,” Johnny said.

     “Not unless you brought the papers with you,” Mike replied. “Well, you got ‘em?”

     “Rat here. And I got my .45 at home in case you ain’t so magic as you say.”

    “You ain’t gonna shoot no one, old man,” Mike growled. “They’d hang you.”

     Johnny, his eyes never leaving Mike’s took the first two steps. “You tink I care, jus try me. I meet you in hell and kick you smart ass.”

     Magic Mike’s sneer withered, and fear flashed across his eyes for the faintest of moments. He took a step back and motioned Johnny inside. The living room walls were lined with shelves that held an odd collection of worn books, jars of powders, jellied concoctions, small creatures floating in liquid, and used candles. An oily black cloud hugged the ceiling. A small workbench resembling one a gardener might use sat in one corner. Fumes rose from a small bowl in the center of the bench to feed the foul-smelling cloud.

     “Take a seat,” Mike said pointing to a tattered overstuffed chair. “Let’s see the papers.”

     Johnny pulled the papers from his shirt and held them out. Mike snatched them away, spread them on the bench, and ran his hand over them to smooth out the folds. He spent a moment reading them before turning his attention to Johnny.

     “Okay, I guess no one’s going to question it,” Mike said.

     “Who dere be what’s going to question? Dey all dead,” Johnny assured him. “Now give me what I want.”

     “Ain’t nobody ever told you to be careful what you wish for?” Mike shot back.

     “Nobody what matters now.”

     Mike shrugged and laughed. “Suits me.”

     He walked to a shelf, scanned a row of jars, selected one, and returned to his bench. He took a spoonful of the powder and stirred it into a small glass of cloudy water. He then poured the mixture into the smoldering bowl. There was a hiss and a final belch of smoke from the bowl. He handed the bowl to Johnny. Though moments ago, something was burning inside it, the bowl was cool to the touch.

     “When I tell you drink it—drink all of it, you got it?” Mike instructed.

     Johnny's stomach twisted into knots at the thought. He shrugged and nodded understanding. Mike took a jackknife from his pocket and drew it across his finger. He flicked the blood in Johnny's face, tilted his head back, and began to chant words, most of which, Johnny did not understand. He did make out “lune”, “ennemis”. That was good enough to convince Johnny the spell was real enough.

     Suddenly, Mike’s head snapped forward. His colorless eyes fixed themselves on Johnny’s for a moment before reverting to brown.

    “Drink,” he commanded in a gravel-laced growl.

     Johnny lifted the bowl and drank, forcing down the vile liquid. His stomach twisted in knots and clenched as the potion hit it. Johnny’s arms wrapped themselves across his middle and he tumbled to the floor. Retching, but holding the liquid down, he writhed on the floor until his body seized in one titanic convulsion and he lay still.

     Mike nudged Johnny’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. “Told ya, old man.”

     The words drifted to Johnny through a haze as his head grew light and seemed to float away.

 

     He found himself standing in a familiar spot on Black Bayou Road. In the twilight, tires sang on the dirt, and he held up his thumb. It was a very young thumb, on a very young hand. He touched his face. His skin was free of wrinkles.

It’s not real, he told himself and stepped toward the natural mirror of the water’s surface. I’ll prove dat.

Before he could take another step, he heard a second car approaching from the opposite direction and was bathed in headlights. A ’32 Ford Roadster was bearing down on him. Dust flew as the driver locked his brakes, the Roadster fishtailed as it swerved around him, crossing the center of the road. The oncoming car turned sharply to the right to avoid the head-on collision. It left the road, hit the bump at the shoulder, and went airborne. As it flew by, Johnny saw the terrified faces of his family. The car plunged beneath the surface and disappeared.

     Johnny couldn’t move. He tried with all his might, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The Roadster finally came to rest. Delmer Rousseau jumped out of the driver’s side. He ran past Johnny screaming for help, reached the water and dove in. He resurfaced moments later—empty-handed.

     “What da hell, you do Delmer?” Johnny shrieked.

     Delmer didn’t seem to hear. He looked right, then left, and bolted for his car.

 

     Johnny came to himself, weeping on Magic Mike’s floor. He dragged himself to his feet, feeling every one of his years, and looked around. Mike closed the refrigerator door and walked toward him carrying a beer in each hand.

     “Have one, old man,” he said holding out a bottle. “I bet you need one about now.”

     “What was dat? What you do to me?” Johnny shouted in Mike’s face.

     “Only what you asked for. Now drink the beer and get out.”

     “You cheated me. I ain’t changed,” Johnny complained.

     “Oh yeah, just wait until the moon is full,” Mike told him. “By my reckoning, you’ve got about three days. Enjoy.”

     “You be da first I come for,” Johnny threatened.

     “I look forward to it,” Mike said with a sneer.

     Johnny stalked out, slammed the door, took a dozen steps, and flung the bottle at door. He wasn’t sure whether to believe Mike. There was nothing to do but wait and see—and make his plans.

 

     The dream, vision, whatever it was the potion induced, was back on the next two nights. There was a twist on the second night. It was no longer young Delmer standing in the road. It was a slobbering, growling rougarou. He jolted awake the next morning in a cold sweat, his heart hammering in his chest. The dream scared him, but it also convinced Johnny that the magic worked. He knew just where to begin when the moon rose again.

     He reached along the wall and into the slit in his mattress. He worked free the bag hidden there. Loosening the drawstring, he dumped the bills onto his bed. He retrieved his overalls from the chair where they hung, pulled his wallet from the back pocket, and stuffed it with money. The remainder of the greenbacks went back into the bag and their hiding place in the mattress.

     “Ain’t a-goin’ to need it no more,” he told the hound watching him.

     He washed his face and dressed before letting the dog out.

     “You stay put, now, hear?” he commanded and started for town.

     He glanced over his shoulder once to be sure the hound obeyed and whistled a tune as he walked. The morning air was cool with a light breeze blowing off the bayou on his back. The sun hadn’t yet peeked over the trees when a red F-150 pulled up alongside him.

     “Where you goin’ so early,” Frank Bass asked.

     “Taut I’d get me some of Delmer’s beignets dis mornin’.”

     “Well, hop in den. I’ll drop you dere.”

     “Merci, goan be a hot one today,” Johnny said climbing into the cab.

     “You right, dere,” Frank replied and stepped on the gas.

     A short time later, Johnny waved goodbye from the sidewalk in front of the Bayou Café as Frank drove off to work. It was on Johnny’s mind to be careful with the truth—no exaggerations, no deceptions or the game wouldn’t be fun. With a smile, he opened the door and stepped inside. He gave Maurice Fontaine, the owner of the café a wave and took a stool at the counter next to Sheriff Landry.

     Laissez les bons temps rouler, he told himself.

     “Mornin’ Sheriff,” he said aloud.

     “You’re in town awful early, aren’t you?” Landry asked.

     “Been here sooner if Frank Bass don’t drive so slow,” Johnny answered with a broad smile.

     “What’ll you have, Johnny?” Maurice asked.

     “Ham, eggs, biscuits, and gravy. Then, da beignets and some for my friend, the Sheriff, too.”

     “Coffee?” Maurice asked.

     “You know it,” Johnny replied.

     Landry shot Johnny a quizzical look that turned into a stare.

     Da lawman is kickin’ in.

     “What’s with you this morning, Johnny?” the sheriff finally asked.

     “Nothin’ but feeling good rat now,” he replied reaching for his coffee.

     “Right now, huh?”

     “Aw, Sheriff, you know none of us promised a later.”

     “Is that so?” Landry asked.

     “Nobody lives forever, you know.”

     Maurice brought Landry’s bill. The sheriff looked at it, finished his last sip of coffee, and reached for his wallet. Johnny laid his hand on the check and shook his head.

     “Dis on me,” he said. “No arugin’ Eddie Landry, mind what I say.”

     “That’s—”

     “I said, dis on me. Mind your elders like your mama tol’ you. I’m sure you’ll earn it.”

     “For my mama’s sake,” Landry said. “I’m going to be watching you, Johnny. You’re up to something.”

     “About five-six,” Johnny replied. “But you do dat, Sheriff.”

     Johnny lingered over breakfast long after the sheriff left. He paid the check and slipped quietly out the door. Across the street, Landry was leaning against his car talking to one of the deputies. He looked Johnny’s way giving him an “I’m watching” nod. Johnny offered him a friendly wave and kept walking. He had a few stops to make before dark.

     His errands run, he returned to Main Street and took up residence at a bar. Several beers later, Frank Bass made his usual after work stop.

    “Johnny St. Pierre, you still in town?” Frank asked, taking the stool beside him.

    “You could solve dat for me,” Johnny said.

    “Sure, I’ll give you a ride home,” Frank told him.

     “Good den da beer’s on me.”

     Two beers later they were on Black Bayou Road headed out of town. Johnny bid his chauffer farewell and returned to his living room to wait for the moon. He could have stayed in town, but if things went as he hoped, he could easily cover the distance without a ride—and without witnesses.

     He lifted the picture from the table beside his chair and traced the faces with his finger.

“Soon cher, soon,” he whispered. “First, dey all goan pay. Dat’s one promise I goan keep, you’ll see.”

He leaned the chair back, feet propped on the footrest. His hand dropped to the knapsack beside the chair. Reassured by its feel, he smiled, and drifted off to sleep in the silent house. No dream haunted him. He awoke a short time later to dying light outside his window. The full moon would be rising soon. Johnny scooped up the knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and was out the door.

     Just beyond the road, his pirogue was waiting. He poled his way across the bayou, and along the shore near Frank Bass’ fish camp. He planned to leave it there, but voices and dancing firelight coming from the trees near the dock forced him to change his plan.

     He put in on a long narrow finger of land and dragged the pirogue onto the muddy bank. He took the knapsack and moved along the shore hoping to reach his destination before the moonlight found him. Again, his plans changed.

He’d made it only a little way when the muscles in his legs cramped. He fell to his knees seconds before the convulsions started. Sickened by the sound of snapping bones, he vomited. His skin burned with the rapid growth of hair and clawed hands shredded his shirt. He closed his eyes against the pain.

     When they opened again, there was no more pain. He could see fishermen across the dark bayou. They were nothing but kids. He could make out their every word. He heard a nutria scamper through the grass and hit the water. He knew it was nutria, he could smell it. He stood and stretched, drinking in his sudden strength. He knew what came next—actually remembered the plan.

     Dropping to all fours he launched himself into the air and hit the ground running. He was part of the wind that stirred the Spanish Moss; he was one with the bayou. He was the shadow that lived. Moments later, he stood at the edge of the clearing that surrounded the trailer.

     Time to die, Mike.

     Rougarou Johnny bounded through the tall grass to the trailer’s steps, stood upright and slowly ascended. The door was open, only a thin screen barred his way. The room beyond the screen was lit by a few candles. He paused to sniff the air.

     “Come in Johnny,” Mike’s voice spoke from within. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

     Johnny ripped the screen door from its hinges and threw it into the yard. Mike was seated in the shadow of a dark corner, but Johnny could see him clearly. The voodoo doctor had his legs extended in front of him and crossed at the ankles. A glass of wine was in his hand and a sneer of contempt on his face.

     Johnny stepped inside and slowly advanced on Mike waiting for him to try and run. Mike made no such move.

     “What were you going to do, old man? Kill me? Go ahead,” he taunted. “Time you learned whose really in control here.”

     Johnny leaped, clawed hand raised, ready to rip out Mike’s heart. Inches from its target Johnny’s hand froze. Mike threw back his head and laughed.

     “You can’t touch me. Not now, not ever.” Mike stood and threw the wine in Johnny’s face. “Get out and never come back.”

 

     It took several hours for Johnny’s blind rage to cool. He couldn’t kill Mike, so be it. He didn’t arrange this to kill Mike. He was more an hors d’oeuvre. Still, it galled him. He’d have to find another way. There was business to attend to and time was slipping away. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way to 439 Honeysuckle Lane, climbed into a tree, and waited for the lights to come on inside.

     When they did, Rougarou Johnny dropped to the ground and up the steps to the front door. Inside a dog began to bark.  The damned thing just would not shut up.

     I’ll fix dat.

     Johnny tried the door—locked. The man inside announced he had a gun.

     A curtain was drawn back and dropped into place again.

     Now, we see what your gun do.

     The knob was turned from within, the door slowly opened, and the dog ran between Johnny’s legs. He let it go. Delmer stuck his face into the opening and Johnny’s claws closed around it. Holding him in place, Johnny swung with all his might and Delmer’s head bounced across the porch. Johnny picked it up. He carried it into the kitchen with the pesky dog nipping his heels all the way. After placing Delmer’s head in a cupboard, Johnny snatched the still barking dog in his jaws and bit down. The barking stopped.

     One down, six to go.