Lost in the Bayou

By Cornell DeVille

People disappear in the bayou. And that’s exactly what fourteen-year-old Robin Sherwood needs to do — before her Uncle Conrad snips her toes off with his rusty garden nippers.

When her parents’ private plane disappears in the Voodoo Swamp, Robin’s uncle moves into the multi-million dollar Sherwood Estate as her guardian. It doesn’t take Robin long to figure out there’s something not quite right about Uncle Conrad — besides having a metal claw where his left hand used to be.

Weird changes to crazy when he explains the bizarre game he has planned — a game that will leave Robin dead and Uncle Conrad the sole heir to the Sherwood fortune. In order to escape his devious plan and its deadly consequences, the bayou may be Robin’s only chance. It’s a risky choice, but becoming alligator bait seems a lot less terrifying right now than what’s waiting for her in the cellar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildheart Books
• Release date: Mar 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507051399

Cornell DeVille

Author and editor of children's books including adventure, mystery, fantasy and steampunk. Dedicated to encouraging imagination in children and adults.

Book preview

A Word of Warning

If you’re ever in Louisiana, stay away from the bayou. And especially avoid a place known as the Voodoo Swamp.

People disappear in there.

It’s hidden deep inside the bayou, beyond the fork in the creek where the limbless cypress stands, and on the far side of Skullhaven Lake. Once you enter that dark and mysterious area, you can become hopelessly lost. The landscape is unchanging. Cypress trees rise from the water, their moss-draped limbs beckoning like ghoulish arms in ragged shrouds. Sounds of unseen things fly into your ears from every direction. The humidity soaks you from the moment you enter, and the invisible stench of death and decay hangs heavy in the air as a silent reminder not to linger.

At twilight, a ghostly blanket of fog rolls in. It covers the stagnant water and hides the quicksand pools that patiently await the unsuspecting visitor. As twilight fades, an inky veil of darkness descends and paints everything in its shadowy evening attire. That’s when the night creatures slither out of their hiding places. Watching. Waiting. Their razor-sharp teeth and long, thick claws ready to rip you open in a heartbeat and devour you within a few minutes.

But something even more deadly is lurking. If your path leads you into the Voodoo Swamp after nightfall, and if the snakes don’t get you first, you may have the great misfortune of encountering Fabien Laveau. A descendant of the legendary Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau, Fabien mysteriously disappeared from the Baton Rouge Psychiatric Hospital in 1956.

It’s been seven years since his escape, and it’s rumored that he’s still hiding deep in the bayou. Some say whatever is lurking there is nothing but Fabien’s ghost, a spirit with no more substance than the mist that floats through the air on a summer’s eve. Others disagree. Those who really know aren’t talking.

If you’re ever in Louisiana, stay away from the bayou—especially the Voodoo Swamp.

You may not come out alive.

Chapter 1

The Dead Bird

The Bayou—A week ago

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Something is wrong!

The steady drone of the Lycoming engine has changed. The pilot shoves the mixture control handle forward to the full rich position. The motor responds with a cough and a few sputters before belching out a loud backfire and a cloud of black smoke—then silence as the propeller slows to a stop.

With insufficient airspeed, the Piper Cherokee stalls. The nose drops. Five hundred feet above the swampy bayou, the aircraft rolls over and goes into a graveyard spiral, gaining speed as it descends. Seconds later, the water explodes from the plane’s impact as the twilight sky is filled with the feathered thunder of fluttering wings.

The bones in the pilot’s right forearm snap in two with a brittle crack! But he doesn’t hear it. His head has already crashed into the wheel. On the other side of the cockpit, the passenger lurches forward from the impact while a jagged shard from the windshield speeds toward her forehead.

The plane sinks slowly below the murky surface. A metallic shudder groans through the fuselage as the nose comes to rest on the soft bottom and the ripples head toward the shore. When the movement stops, the only evidence of the event is a few feet of the silver tail remaining above the surface and pointing toward the sky.

From the shadows of the muddy bank, a dark figure glides silently into the water.

Chapter 2

The Silver Claw

The Sherwood Estate—Monday morning

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In Louisiana, summer wraps around you like molasses. Thick and sticky. July is hot and humid. Always. August is worse. And this dreadfully boring summer of 1963 has been a record breaker so far.

This morning, the sky is cloudless. The air is muggy, and there’s no hint of a breeze to blow away the pestering flies or the lingering stench of whatever crawled under the porch and died a few days ago. The only possible relief in sight is a dark bank of clouds in the south over the bayou. If it holds together, we may get a storm later tonight to cool things off. I hope so.

The rhythmic buzz of locusts fills the air, but it stops suddenly as a deep rumble comes up the road. My heart races as the sound rolls across the terrace and toward the covered veranda where we’re waiting.

There’s an uncertain look in Andy’s eyes when he glances up at me, and his voice is thin as water when he speaks.

He’s coming.

It’s going to be all right.

I squeeze my younger brother’s narrow shoulders and give him a reassuring smile while trying to hide my own fear of what’s heading toward us. Since our house is quite a distance from the wrought-iron entrance gates of our estate, we have a minute or so before the car gets here.

When I turn around and glance at my reflection in the window for one final check, the awkward image staring back at me is disappointing, as usual. Being fourteen is frustrating. Honestly. I’m all knees and elbows, and the white dress makes my freckles show up too much. The Toni home permanent made my red hair way too kinky. And my eyes are puffy from crying all night.

But I’m stuck with it for now. That’s another bad part about being fourteen: You can’t change anything. And there’s nothing I can change now before the car carrying our visitor gets here—including the fact that the court has appointed him our new guardian.

Andy stares down the long driveway toward the entrance, waiting and watching. When I spin him around to adjust his necktie, big-eyed smiling frogs stare back at me. Frog neckties must be the rage with eleven-year-old boys this summer. Actually, I don’t know why I’m even bothering. His tie is a clip-on. There’s nothing to adjust.

My fingers scratch through his scruffy blond hair to make it look as if someone combed it. A quick swipe of my hand wipes away the tiny beads of sweat glistening on his pink forehead. If Mom were here, she’d open her purse and pull out a Kleenex, lick it, and scrub some dirt from our faces—that special dirt that only mothers can see. It always embarrassed me when she did that, but I wish she were here to do it now.

The sound is getting louder. And closer. The locusts have gotten used to it and started buzzing again, their cadence in time with the seconds ticking by. Andy and I stand side by side at the porch railing, waiting to face whatever the future has in store for us.

A white sports car comes into view with a cloud of gravel dust following closely behind it. The morning sun reflects off the polished chrome in a brilliant silver flash.

Robin! Look! Andy yells, pointing toward the car. It’s a Corvette!

His fear and apprehension seem to have flown, and there’s a gleam in his eyes—a sparkle that’s been missing since our parents disappeared. He has such a cute smile, even if he is my brother, and it’s nice to see him wearing it again. He’s tapping his toes now, the way he always does when he’s excited about something. He hasn’t been this animated in quite some time. If Dad were here, he would say, Andrew, you’re dancing like a maggot on a hot griddle. Mom and I would smile at each other and open our mouths and stick out our tongues, like we were going to gag. Then Dad would chuckle in that deep voice of his. I can hear it in my head.

The car continues up the long driveway until it reaches the circle. It makes a slow turn around the big fountain in the center before coming to a stop.

Holy cow, Robin! Andy yells. It’s a Sting Ray! Come on!

He bolts toward the veranda steps, but he doesn’t get far. My fingers hook the back of his collar in time to stop him in his tracks and make his tie pop off. I pull him back to the railing, pick up the tie, and clip the metal prongs under his collar. I’m wearing my serious face now and looking directly into his eyes.

Don’t you remember Mrs. Deffenbaugh telling us to stay on the porch to make a good impression? And quit jumping around so much. You act like you’re about to pee your pants.

He gives me that look of his and stands still. For about two seconds. Then he looks back at the car and his excitement bubbles to the surface again. What is it with boys and their fascination with sports cars? I’m ignoring him, of course, trying to keep a dignified expression on my face. But I’m smiling inside. It’s nice to see him happy for a change. He’s been so distant and withdrawn the past week.

Andy hasn’t been alone in feeling lost and abandoned. When one of the official people called us orphans, the word bypassed my ears and went straight to my heart like a dagger. Orphans. I still don’t believe it. But the uncertainty is weighing on me—not knowing what’s happened to Mom and Dad or if we’re ever going to see them again. Plus the fear of what today, and every day from now on, brings with it.

The car is a convertible, but the top is up and the windows are tinted a dark gray. Obviously, there’s a driver inside, but there’s no one visible through the dark glass. The rumbling sound of the exhaust stops, and everything becomes quiet. Even the locusts seem to be holding their tongues. Or whatever they use to make that irritating sound. We wait for the driver to emerge, but nothing happens for what seems like a very long time. Finally, the car door opens slowly, and a tall man wearing sunglasses steps out.

Andy leans toward me. Is that him? he whispers.

I guess so, I whisper back. But I’m not sure. I don’t recognize the face. He’s supposed to be Dad’s brother, but he looks nothing like Dad. There isn’t anything familiar about him, and nothing sparks a memory.

Of course, it’s been twelve years since I’ve seen our Uncle Conrad. I was only two years old the last time he was here, and my memory of that day is a bit fuzzy at best. Andy wasn’t even born yet. The only thing I remember about him is a faint image of a green army jacket with polished brass buttons on it. But that could be something I recall from a photo of him. The uncertainty about who this man really is, and what’s going to happen next, makes me uneasy and more than a little nervous.

As we watch, he turns his back on us and removes a couple of bags from inside the car. He’s heading toward the veranda now and getting closer with each step. Suddenly, I don’t want him here. He doesn’t belong here. Why can’t he just get back in his fancy sports car and drive away?

But it’s too late for that. The court decided that Andy and I need someone to watch over us. Someone to keep us safe the way Mom and Dad did when they were here. I’m so confused I don’t know what I should be feeling. I just want Mom and Dad to come home.

He’s almost to the porch now, and he’s smiling at us. As he gets nearer, my smile starts to fade when something confuses me. The sun is reflecting from a strange object at the end of Uncle Conrad’s arm. It looks like metal. Large. Silver. Shiny, like the chrome on his car. What is that thing? As he gets closer, a flurry of horror rushes through me as I realize what it is.

Oh, God!

It’s a claw.

Chapter 3

Blueberries and Silver

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The shiny metal claw is attached to our uncle’s arm where his left hand used to be—where his left hand should be. I keep staring at the thing in disbelief as he comes ever closer. My gaze fixes on it, and I search my brain trying to remember seeing it before. There’s no memory of it. But it’s not the kind of thing you would ever forget. Even a two-year-old would remember a hideous thing like that.

Andy sees it, too, and his eyes are wide and serious when he looks up at me. He’s about to say something, and I shake my head before anything embarrassing comes tumbling out of his mouth.

My heart pounds inside my chest as our visitor climbs the veranda steps and sets his luggage on the porch. He stares down at me without speaking. I stare at his sunglasses, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s my own shocked expression looking back at me from the silver mirror lenses.

A moment later, his serious face softens into a smile. As if on command, the locusts stop their monotonous buzzing when his lazy southern drawl floats into my ears. In case you don’t remember, I’m your favorite uncle. Conrad.

I can’t help smiling back. I know, I reply, nodding my head. You’re our only uncle.

He shrugs as his smile gets wider. Oh, well. You can’t blame a feller for trying.

Well, since you’re our only uncle, you must be our favorite. I’m Robin, I say, offering him the best smile I can come up with. I’m trying not to look at the thing attached to his arm, but my eyes won’t leave it alone.

Andy’s voice pulls my attention from it when he introduces himself. I’m Andrew. Andrew Sherwood.

Pleased to make your acquaintance, Andrew Sherwood, our uncle says. He extends his hand.

You can call me Andy if you want to, my brother replies as they shake hands.

Our uncle turns his attention back to me. Any news about your parents yet?

Of all the questions he could have come up with, why that one? I lower my head and stare at my shoes. Why did I wear these things? They’re cramping my toes and making my feet sweat. His mention of Mom and Dad brings tears to my eyes again, and I try to blink them back before they can escape. My throat is too tight to answer his question, so I shake my head in reply as an uncomfortable silence surrounds us.

Oh! I almost forgot, Uncle Conrad says as he reaches inside one of his bags and pulls out a small brown paper sack. Something rolls around inside the sack when he waves it in front of my face.

My hand moves forward, reaching for it. What is it?

Before my fingers can make contact with the paper sack, he raises it out of my reach. Not for you, sweetheart, he says.

The new warmth on my face tells me my cheeks are flushing. Why is he calling me sweetheart? I shrug one shoulder. Okay. But what is it? I don’t really care now. I’m only trying to fill the silence and keep our poor excuse for a conversation going.

He transfers the sack from his real hand to his other one, and the shiny jaws of the metal claw snap closed on the paper. It reminds me of the kind of pincher a gigantic metal crawfish might have. It’s creepy, really. I’m still trying not to look, but it’s like a magnet, pulling my eyes back every time I shift them away.

Is it peaches? Andy asks, looking up at the sack.

Uncle Conrad smiles down at him from behind his mirrored sunglasses and shakes his head. Nope. It’s blueberries! His other hand, his real one, retrieves a few of the dark blue berries from the sack and pops them into his mouth. Mighty tasty, too. I want your cook to bake me some muffins.

That sounds great, I reply, trying to act and sound as normal as possible, even though my heart still lurches every time I glance at his horrible metal claw. I love blueberry muffins.

Me, too, Andy chimes in. He’s staring at