Five Days of Darkness Read online

  Other titles by Greg Hall:

  Novel -

  Forever 27

  Novella -

  Modern Psycho

  Blackout

  VR

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright 2021 Greg Hall

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Greg Hall

  Covered designed by Greg Hall

  To whomever wants to read this, you are the reason I still write…

  1

  Morrow, Louisiana, 1912

  Once a lively town, Morrow was now haunted by the disappearance of the Boyd family.

  A dismal, cautionary feeling spread through the town like a disease. Since the family had gone missing five days earlier, the rest of the townspeople lived in fear. The residents were inside before sunset, and all the festivities that families usually filled their time with were put on hold. Their doors were now locked at night.

  It felt eerie when the sun went down now. The small-town feeling of safety was gone. Usually, evenings began with bonfires and led to crowds of the community intermingling. There was never a reason needed to have a nightly celebration, but it seemed most of Morrow’s population spent the nights together. Since Morrow only had a population of three hundred people, they all knew each other.

  Morrow was predominately white; the blacks that lived in the town generally kept to themselves. Rarely did they take part in the nightly parties. Some lingered in the background, hoping that they would be invited, welcomed to partake in the festivities. But now, they were the ones who were the most scared. Once the Boyd family went missing, the white population was worried, but the black population was terrified. A family of their own disappears; it causes trepidation for the entire black community.

  The atmosphere of the nights had changed. The laughs and cheers had been replaced with crickets and deep, gruff sounds of frogs. Jimmy Nelson used to practice his Cajun fiddle nightly, but these sounds would end once the night fell.

  A rumor started that something was lurking in the dark. Some called it a monster; others called it a demon. Whatever it was, they said it came for the Boyd family. The speculation of a supernatural being spread through the town like a virus.

  Father Henri Joffre took it upon himself to offer some light, some semblance of hope, in these dark times. He knew the Boyds’ well, and their only remaining daughter, Betsy, was still in church this Sunday morning. Henri had spent the better part of an hour rewriting his sermon to reflect the current situation. He wanted the words to speak directly to Betsy, to provide at least a shred of hope.

  The entire morning Henri kept his focus primarily on the young girl. She never raised her head, except to wipe tears on a few occasions. Every time the motion was made, Henri locked his eyes on her, hoping to catch a moment. He had expected to hear her sing hymns. He loved listening to her angelic voice; the way it would carry through the church brought out an emotion in Henri that he thought he had lost. But today, she remained silent through each one.

  She never even prayed.

  At forty-six, Henri had already seen enough in his tenure. Having spent the early years of his brotherhood training in New Orleans, he was exuberant when he arrived in Morrow. A place where Henri could disappear and spend his time in introspection and retrospection. He noticed the small, segregated black community right away. They were spread out along the rail line. It was something he had seen with each town he had passed on his way to Morrow. In each town he passed, the marginalized black people were the closest to the rail.

  Construction had begun on the new highway through Morrow. It was to be called US 71, and Henri was not looking forward to it. It was a constant worry for him. He feared visitors would make their way through the town, bringing whatever metaphoric baggage they carried with them. He worried about the community already living along the rail line, who would, most likely, be forced from their homes and pushed farther away from the rest of the community.

  Henri loved his small community, and he wanted to be a part of everyone’s life. It was another reason he didn’t like the highway through the town. Highways brought more people.

  It wasn’t that Henri opposed the change, he was just initially weary of change when he couldn’t predict the outcome. He considered himself progressive, so he opened the doors to the black community. After speaking with a majority, he discovered they shared similar Christian beliefs. But the main issue was, Morrow only had one house of worship.

  He spread the word through the black community by going door to door, but not a single black person showed up. It went on for months until, finally, Betsy appeared in the doorway one Sunday morning service. Henri was right in the middle of his first prayer—the Hail Mary—when his eyes caught her standing awkwardly at the front door, appearing to decide whether she should stay or go. Henri stopped right after the ‘Lord is with thee’ line. His parishioners continued the prayer. It took a few moments for them to realize that Henri had stopped the prayer. Most craned their necks to see what captured Henri’s attention. The entire parish fell silent; it was calming and disturbing at the same time.

  Henri stepped free from the pulpit to welcome her. He guided her to a pew near the back. He didn’t want to have assigned segregated areas, but some of the congregation wasn’t as open as Henri was to the idea of them coming in to share Sunday service. So Henri had left the last four pews on the right just for the black community, inadvertently segregating them anyway.

  Louisiana was rampant with segregation from the Jim Crow laws, and even though the reconstruction of the southern states helped improve race relations, remnants of distrust between blacks and whites remained. By the early twentieth century, most of the state was segregated in public places, and Henri wanted to avoid it in his parish. He had every intention of changing it but never didn’t know where to start.

  Betsy’s bravery was the spark needed. Word slowly spread. First, the rest of the Boyd family started attending Henri’s service; Betsy’s father Jacob, her mother Marie, and her brother Warren. Then, the last four pews began to fill.

  He was impressed that Betsy Boyd was the first to arrive and the last one to leave almost every Sunday. She usually spent the latter part of the morning wiping the pews after everyone had left. He loved how vibrant Betsy was and always felt that he, in some way, played a small role in her bliss. Betsy was exuberant, simply for the reason that she had a place to worship God. After the first sermon, Betsy started with wiping the pews. She would collect bibles and place them back in their holders. She wanted to repay Henri any way she could.

  “Peace be with you,” Henri said to the congregation from behind the wooden pulpit. His green gown stopped a few inches from his ankles. The sleeves had started to fray—something he wanted to fix but could not do himself.

  Henri lowered his hands and stepped back. It was the first time he’d seen movement coming from Betsy’s direction. The rest of the parishioners all saw it, too.

  Betsy gripped the empty pew in front of her, using all the energy she had to lift herself from her seat. The humidity had caused her floral dress to stick to her skin. She wiped the sweat from her forehead before it could reach her eyes. Her focus was still on the ground in front of her, but everyone could tell she was preparing to speak.

  “It’s been five days. Five days since they’ve been gone,”
Betsy said.

  “Betsy…” Henri hoped the conversation wouldn’t go any further—at least in front of the remaining congregation.

  “I’m sorry, Father. You know they ain’t coming back,” Betsy said, her eyes trained on the ground.

  Even so, Henri swore he could see the tears building in her eyes. He wasn’t much for confrontation and was uncomfortable around women when they cried. Not the best trait for a priest, but one Henri hid well. He simply wasn’t sure how to react. Words failed him. He stood motionless, hoping the scene would pass. But now, he was front and center for Betsy’s display.

  “We must have faith…” Henri said but even as he spoke he questioned his own words. Faith had become a vestigial word in Henri’s vocabulary over the last few years. It was an arbitrary term that seemed to be tossed around by his brotherhood. In simple terms, it has almost lost its meaning.

  “God spoke to me,” Betsy said. Her words caused the rest of the parish to gasp and exchange glances. The congregation’s front portion appeared to be appalled because a person in the segregated area would be a chosen vessel to speak with the Lord.

  “Betsy. I appreciate your candor, but this sounds like a conversation for after the service,” Henri responded.

  It wasn’t new that individuals who claimed to have spoken to the man above usually ended up locked away in brock buildings, never to be heard from again. The stress Betsy was under could have caused her to hallucinate, and Henri wanted to carefully approach the subject.

  “He said you were the only one who could stop it,” Betsy continued, defiantly raising her head.

  Henri could see now that what he thought were tears were simply more beads of sweat. The expression in her eyes was something fierce. The way she spoke was different than before. There was strange confidence in her words, her timid nature seemingly gone by the wayside. She was also the first person of color to stand and speak openly in his parish.

  “Stop what?” Henri asked.

  “The monster,” Betsy replied bluntly.

  Henri stood, shocked in silence. Betsy’s eyes locked on him for so long he thought it would lead to next Sunday’s sermon. The silence remained until, finally, the other parishioners began to stand and make their way out of the church, either discomforted by the silence, or the outrageous claim that monsters could be responsible for her family’s disappearance, or both.

  It was preposterous that anyone believed in monsters, let alone bringing the idea into the church where it could poison other parishioners’ minds. Through the congregation’s confessional, Henri heard many sins, tales of wrongdoings. Some confessions brought sickness to his stomach. But these stories, these confessions, were not from monsters; they were from men.

  “Thank you, everyone,” Henri finally said. He wanted to hide his disdain for Betsy’s deceitful claim of monsters and the use of God’s word guiding her, so he tried to escape as quickly as possible. Saint Landry’s was known for coming down hard on pastors who tolerated heresy.

  Usually, after each sermon, Henri would wait on the parish’s front steps to exchange pleasantries with every parishioner who left. He chose to refrain from it today, being that most had already left following Betsy’s heretical exclamation. After things calmed, Henri figured he could stop by each individual’s home, but the rumors, solidified by Betsy’s outburst, would make it difficult for Henri to tolerate.

  Henri spent most of his free time in his garden. It was his place of solitude. The arrangements, the scents, always brought a calming to his nerves. So Henri wasn’t surprised that Betsy would know he was there, but he did figure that he should have changed his routine on this particular day.

  “You have to speak with Modeste.” Betsy’s voice cut through the silence.

  Henri knew of Modeste, but out of anyone in the community, she was the only one he never made an effort to connect with. He didn’t know much about her, but the stories had traveled with him from New Orleans. He only knew her by the stories he heard, so when she arrived in Morrow six months earlier, it put a terrible taste in his mouth. The enchanting tales of her magical healing powers and exaggerated following were proving to be a nuisance to Henri’s parish. Half the community welcomed her, while the other half wanted her to leave.

  He wasn’t bothered by her presence in the town; he just didn’t want anything to do with her. She could barely walk and always needed a cane to get around. In some ways, Henri pitied her.

  “Modeste? I’m sorry, Betsy, but that’s not going to be possible.”

  “Please. She knows. She knows how to beat it. She knows how to kill the monster.”

  It all made sense to Henri now. Modeste’s words and beliefs had been contaminating the poor girl’s mind. Betsy was already at her most vulnerable, and Modeste was using that to her advantage. The witch had planted the seed of monsters.

  “Betsy. We don’t know what happened with your family. You need answers, I know, but relying on a witch…”

  “Modeste is not a witch. Please, Father. I thought you were different. We all thought you were different.”

  “I’m sorry, Betsy. I truly am. I just don’t see how someone who worships the Devil could provide any help.”

  Betsy stepped forward. Her eyes revealed the innocence that Henri hadn’t seen during their previous conversation. The same integrity he saw when she first entered his parish.

  “God spoke to me. I believed every word,” she urged.

  Her strength of belief had always intrigued Henri. He had been losing his faith in recent years. Henri had begun to question his faith over the last few years. After the tragedies he witnessed in New Orleans, he wasn’t sure his faith would ever be restored. He tried to talk to God every day, but there was never a response. He wondered for a moment if he was just resentful that Betsy was so adamant that she had spoken to the Lord, but Henri shrugged it off.

  People went missing along the Texas and New Orlean rail line frequently. No one knew whether they had drowned in the bayou or if an animal attacked them. These tragedies simply added to the rhetoric that monsters lived in the darkness. Even though people went missing in Louisiana, this was the first time anyone in Morrow knew of three people disappeared at the same time.

  Betsy and her family had gone to bed at the same time. When Betsy woke early in the morning, she was completely alone.

  Henri wanted to help, and now that she stood in front of him begging for his help, he wondered where the empathy had gone.

  “What exactly did He say?” Henri said, trying to be sympathetic to the poor girl who lost her family. Even though she was only seventeen, Henri couldn’t help but wonder how much older her determination made her seem.

  Betsy’s shoulders relaxed, the tension evaporating. “He said there are monsters in our streets. That they will continue to harm unless you, Father, put a stop to it.”

  “I can do no such thing.”

  “But you must. Many more will die,” Betsy said.

  “And how exactly does He expect me to do that?”

  “You must speak with Modeste.”

  “I can’t…”

  Betsy took a step closer. Her hands clasped. “Please. For my family’s sake.”

  If there was a family in his parish that Henri would do anything for, it was the Boyds. Once Henri opened his door to the entire community and they felt comfortable to enter, the Boyds never took it for granted. Betsy’s father, Jacob Boyd, helped plant flowers in the spring. His wife, Marie Boyd, collected the bibles and placed them back into the pews at the end of the service. It was a task Henri never asked of either of them, but the pair had said they did it out of belonging.

  Jacob, in particular, used to reminisce with Henri about how they had to pray in the outskirts of Morrow. The black community would meet and have their services hidden away front the white crowds of Morrow.

  “I’ll do it,” Henri finally said. Although his intention wasn’t to speak to Modeste about monsters, he would tell the witch to stop using her beliefs
to contaminate the minds of his community.

  That night, Henri still couldn’t get Betsy off his mind. He tossed and turned on his feather mattress. Betsy’s proclamations repeated through his head. Did God speak to her? Why am I the only one who can stop it? Henri threw the sheet off himself; the cotton cloth fell to the ground. He sat straight up and stretched his back. The mattress had creased in the center, and it no longer fit Henri’s form. Most mornings, he woke with a sharp pain in his lower back that radiated down his left side.

  He slipped himself off of the bed and crouched down at the foot of the bed. His knees ached at the weight put on them. He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. He wanted to speak, but there were no words available. He didn’t know where to begin. It was easier for him when he had to perform in front of her congregation, but when he was alone with the man above, Henri found it hard to find the words to say.

  “If you’re listening, I know it’s been a while,” Henri started. He let the words linger. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could have taken them back. It was an eerie feeling. He had never spoken aloud in the room alone, and now that he had, the echo made him feel like someone was there with him.

  It was too late to turn back.

  Henri tried to find the words, but his mind remained blank. If God were here, he would know what he wanted to say. He would ask why such terrible things happened, why the innocent had to endure so much, why the innocent had to die. Why the child, Eli, that he found floating in the bayou back in New Orleans had died. These cruel, heartbreaking moments were the reasons why Henri left the brotherhood there and requested a new parish of Saint Landry’s. It was the final stake into his wavering faith.

  As his thoughts seemed to plague Henri, he rose from his knees without even a follow-up to his initial statement. He looked over his simple mattress, but he knew he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight.